Translation

Something produced from an infinity of steam-trains, a steam roller day. Everything pushed flat would be the colkour of that sky, it tastes of corrugated iron and electric fences. Below it all, the sound of something chiming. A bell from the woods underwater, the spinney just off the pier. Poplar trees beneath the waves, swaying like uncertain church spires, a merman-silence, a kraken-brood.
Walking home, and in those few places that are deep with trees and bushes - occult spaces by tiny obscure hospitals and that museum I've never been in down New Church Road, I notice the colour there is of someone vanishing. Wind through rhe leaves of woodland clumps, sun-dappled shadow. A movement like sleep and nothing.