Gnomon

There is always a hole in a fence,

eventually, that someone else has made.

Local hoodlums, is that still the word,

anticipated my palliate arrival with pliers,

somewhere to smoke or shoot up or shag,

is that still a word, but I’m thankful all

the same because there is nowhere else

in the city or the neighbourhood, is that

still a thing, to walk my dog today, for

all the good spots are taken and I don’t

trust him to be social with other dogs,

the only real trick I’ve ever taught him.

The fence hole is in an industrial

estate still being established, there is an

unused quarter, is that still a thing, where

I watch my dog run through yellow grass,

or not so much run as bound, is that the

word because it seems like he’s doing the

very opposite of being bound, because

giving a dog the opportunity to run free is

a handsome thing but also reminds you of

how this instinct is mostly restricted, but

not today because look at where we are:

northward is nothing but sky,

I don’t mean straight above my head,

although that is also nothing, I mean to

the horizon, just some arm of a crane like

a twig from this distance, it pivots in an arc

like the gnomon of a sundial, pointing now

towards the old gun barrel radio station on

the hill that still distributes a signal, low

powered, someone messing around with

pirate frequencies, I know because I hear

directions being read by a man wearing

what sounds like a heavily pilled jumper.

Transmission towers daisy

chained by melancholy strings like

Elgar would have liked seeing bowed,

not heard necessarily, the visual would

have been enough as it is now, seeing

them become small as I back up towards

the fence line, who knew the ground

here would be so wet, is this what it has

come to, seeking out sunken fields in a

zone beyond the reason of townships,

through a hole in a fence (ok I admit it

was me who made the incision, is that

still a thing, admission, admission

into this area, but I jest), somewhere for

my dog to go unfettered, to walk without

neighbours, to see cranes and grass and

power pylons and rusted buildings on

the hill beneath Tuesday dry sunlight,

and while we need to turn back because

we have run out of solid ground, there

will be another day when we will return,

not phased by how messy this sludge

wander was, the nettles from the grass

pinned to us saying ‘take me with you’.