Man made of Glass

The white sky clears, and from the white mist of these metaphoric days, a transmission makes it through. Wide field under white skies. Blue threaded with white clouds, and it feels like the gold, or gods, of September. Poplar trees in the warm afternoon, a rumour of rivers, and I find on the grass a postcard of a steam train, still on a coastal branch line. Still sea, still sky, and the steam looks as uncertain as the sway of the poplar trees that surround me. Ahead of me, a man made of glass. Coming closer I see myself reflected in the translucent surface, clear as imagined ice - ice is dirty and muddied when not imagined - but as easy to break.
Perhaps.
The breach in the white sky closes again, and I do not know whether that lost country is inches or millenia away.