By Dave Goulder


Emerging from my cocoon

I try to stand against the blast, and hear

a train roaring through

very close, but there is no line here.

It is trees on the move.

As the gale hurtles through this no-stopping station,

I stare with watereyes

and see waves heaving, crashing back and fore

in constant turmoil, but

it is the trees becoming an ocean.

Leafy tops driven eastwards, responding. . .

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