June the 28th Forever

Shallow streets under street lamp reflected skies. Deep shadows down a road lined with bins and Elm tree trunks. Windows stacked on windows. An electricity sub station. A camper van made from a converted bus, looking abandoned. Shadows pass me. Pubs. Voices. Distance.
There are spiders loose in here. You've got spiders loose in here. Slip through sleep, like snakes through the silver of old water. I remember calling autumn the silver season once. Thinking that not last decade but the decade before on a train to Birmingham. Passing by a canal, watching workmen gathered by a brazier.
The bowl is tilted and smashed and upset, but it's not - wasn't - empty. Apple juice and pear juice - orchard blood - stain the floor - bright and accusing rills swell and pulse and seep through sleep. The curves of the smashed bowl look like fragments of a moon made from a tree.
It feels like it has been June the 28th forever.