Lined up like tin soldiers, the railway houses don’t change much. Those narrow, red faces with wide eyes that keep watch on the crisscross of streets, their pockets of green tucked away with their tangles of washing-lines, and wooden sheds squeezed in between the weed clotted fences. It’s the sort of place where noise bounces down avenues and lands in a garden not its own. Music might be just as easily from a park you cannot see for grey roof tiles, as the radio downstairs. Wind carries laughter further than static.
The train line plays hide-and-seek between the buildings. Always behind the next fence, darting beneath your feet, slinking away between the mishmash of warehouses not yet reclaimed for renewal. In the same way your nervous systems fizzles beneath your skin, the tracks hum and rattle from corner to corner. In the thunder of carriages the words loose themselves. The statement, ‘I was here first, this is my town, I am the heart, the life giver, the cradle it crawled from to sprawl its way across green land and country lanes.’
Among the tattered edges of the outskirts, men in high viz score paint mark lines onto empty fields. New arteries already slicing the rural in half, prying it closer to the urban. Matchbox houses are packed beneath the topsoil, sprung, and loaded to bloom. Soon this will be another garrison of tin soldiers, with newer faces and prettier smiles.
Pigeons broke my fence,
with their fat, fast, crash landings.
Grown too quick to cope.
Today’s prompt was to write a haibun about the natural landscape of where you live. However, I live in a town that is gearing up for a new HS2 station in the not-to-far-off future so there isn’t much natural landscape left to talk about. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the Haibun. DVersePoets, you have trained me well for this particular prompt.