Waiting for civilisation to arrive

Into the arches, under the tracks, a dank respite and then out into the last of the light, the unending day and the heavy, heavy sky pressing down, filling every space, every pore, walking submerged in a thick, viscous liquid, drowning in the humidity, tired and torpid, we breach the Mancunian Way, drifting across lanes with late night listless ease, tyres sinking into the sunken camber, the streets still and wide beneath us, dry cracked canyons poised to receive. From the bedroom window the sky flickers and flashes like a broken TV, interspersed with gun shots from a distant front beyond the slate horizon. We lie back in the darkness, unspeaking, curtains wide, waiting for the sky to rip open, waiting in dreamless sleep, waiting for the sluggish dawn, for the heat and thrum of the engine, peering through dusty windscreens as the caravan lumbers on, day after day, year after year, towards the eternal mirage shimmering neither north nor south, east nor west for we have become the trail itself.

Slow West
Home, Manchester

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