Something Always There

Something always there.
Sometimes it might be in the streets of a nowhere town, neither north nor south, identical houses on a hill under lead coloured skies. Sometimes it might be in an increasingly ragged suburb of London, decaying into fields where the glances of sad looking horses reflect a muted sun. Lately it has been inside the interior of a house I once knew, that I dreamt of again last night, comparing toothpastes, of all things, with a work colleague.
The past is a geography that watches us, a landscape always seeking to find a way into the present, A virus inside nostalgia and chronology.
Sometimes I imagine that the day we walk through might split apart, and in these tears and rips, that deeper landscape might make itself known.
Disappearing into new / old places.
Shed like iron and restless casts, inevitable as daydreams.
Something always there.