Gliding, gilded, through the grey gap between
Great Yarmouth and the rest of the world
that is, ironically, much much greater,
we cut through the damp dark drizzle like a
bullet shot slowly at a spray of mist.
Trees approach and fall away from windows
agitated now they dream of moving
perpindicular rather than parallel
to me. In the distance they congregate
out of reach, plotting tactics rallying
their branches on the boundaries of fields.
Nearer to Norwich the shots of nature
are smaller, stronger, the industrial threat
is planning to finish them off, but not quite yet.
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