High speed, non stop, heading North.
Heading somewhere that silently screenplays in me as I watch real time scenes unfold and reflect back in that odd merge of inside and out that train windows always hold. All tracks lead to a sandy shore where the breeze is carving pathways of it's own.
Little scenes sing out between the hash of horizontal speed lines. Dead end streets give way to buttercup fields. London lets us go and we tilt into a rising roar, head for the splatter of hedges and ditches that run towards us like rows of wide open arms.
Pulled in beside the road, a flower truck with the side open. Blocks of colour, stocked full. Roses lined up looking out into the fields, roses that only know greenhouses on flat land that lies like a smoothed out quilt, neat with reds here, pinks just so beside the yellow.
Redbrick. Midland town stations. Going too fast to ever know their names. Rows of coaches parked up. Rows of canal barges. Pylons. Chimneys. Square fields of lone horses, noses touching across fences. One runs circles and circles within his white fenced plot. New cables above us, like lines of light. Dip and rise, dip and rise towards each pylon.
Narrow lanes climb the hills. No-one drives them except diving swallows. And I'm dozing in the image merge layering of here and elsewhere, dream and daydream, sepia tinged and weather blasted.