Outdoors we stumbled through ragged spaces

through castaway inaccessible lonely places

as if, just as if

Wales the museum had opened its doors

to reveal its Cambrian railway

stripped of purpose

a fallacy, a castaway fantasy

a graveyard of distance like

the thoughts of dead dogs

unleashed to our gaze.

 

A platform attended by bush and stump

fell for the rapacious weeds

the pulled out shell of a waiting room,

brown sign disconnected pointing down

as if to say the train no longer knew its way,

and in a plumage of waste and roots

a fancy mirror tipped up to meet the sky

with blistered wood and fungal eye.

 

A semaphore signal on Cambrian post

unspecific with no greater need

than to give direction to some restless ghost

while birds  took note of dark corners to nest

and punctuated the routes of sky.