A lone man, hair fine as clouds,
is crossing wasteland
where ownerless black dogs circle each other.
The path through his night is too narrow
so walks this daily loop, a habit borne of unease
and the fear of losing something irreplaceable.
Past the skeleton factory with rusted ribcage
and walls encoded with slug graffiti
where he defied the dread of idle hands
Spent his youth in the foundry,
twenty five shillings a week the price of a man,
until the great spitting cauldrons were snuffed
and days empty now as a New Year calendar.
Returning to the empty flat he abandons
muddy boots to the sodden mat
unwilling to walk the past any further.