The brambles in the carpark

Why not break from my chair and cycle through the bustle of Shirley and across the Test? Why not cycle through the forest where Toton give way to free roaming horses grazing on thick wet pasture and the undergrowth bristles with the late pickings of the summer? Read not at my desk but over looking the murky folding canopy pierced by a sporadic spire, morphing softly and dramatically as the sun begins to spill its tears across the land. Wash through the last remaining thoughts of the day with the fresh produce of the Avon in a glowing haven of mortar and wood and ponder with the dew of the Spey. Let the doe dance before my headlight on the winding country path.

Why cower between the sheets when my shaky legs can carry me? Past the stores as workers return from their shifts, stumble through the tail end of the quarter of the night and join the market before it has begun. Find a place, between container yard, monotone blocks and angry bypass, full of imagination and smiles.