Losing Dimensions

Briefly touched - a flickering nothing more - of grey streets under grey skies, and in the gutters streams of water running into drains. The water of these streams - overflow of some unseen rainfall - seem to drag something from the day, something from the stones and the air, and leaves us with two dimensions only. Everything is flat, there is no depth, no perspective, no vanishing point, a 21st century Flatland perhaps.
It felt like the brush of pale and faded crow-wings as they take flight. It was brief, a flash of some ghost-technology, but it seeped into the day.

I remember lying on the grass of some Worcester field with Paul, end of summer 1998, somewhere behind London Road. It was a grey twilight evening. There was a flock of birds up in the sky, but we couldn't look at these birds directly. They could only be seen out of the corner of your eye, some optical effect of the clouds and the dim light. 'Are you seeing this as well?' Paul asked. We lay there watching and not watching the birds, till finally they faded to nothing, like ghosts, some cheap television special effect.
Some days feel like those birds fading.

A wasteground full of broken railway tracks, weeds pushing up through the rust and runners.
Breathing in the white-air, wet with rain, air cold as sleep in the waiting rooms of draughty stations.
Empty playgrounds watched by gulls.
A dead boat drifting in canal waters.