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I have to walk a long-time
before I get there.
I have a habit of returning to
the same haunts.
We skirt the M20, over the
fence to the rhythm
of the cars flying past to
London and Dover.
We pass over the boggy ground.
We emerge from the gloom,
greeted by the smell of wood
preservative.
Smells like a kind of varnish.
The stench of more remains
rooted in the earth.
A bastardised relation of the
subterranean kind.
Bruised and swollen like
so many bones and flesh lying
strewn over grass.
The foundations for the gateway
wrapped in bricks and mortar,
like an upturned lung under a
heavy sky.
The earth breathes.
Dad reached through the wall,
placed his hand on the ancient Yew.
And I knew he didn’t want me to
go.
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