Out past roads stunted in their dreams.
Out past hidden zen gardens, their mystery stripped by balconies overlooking their windswept nonchalance.
Out past smashed sinks left behind by the war on hygiene.
Out beyond, past the end of the path, just out of reach, the salvage platform rests like a sentry giant from another culture, parallel to our own.
I heard from a lady on the train that it belongs to someone in Lewes, that it travels round the world to scavenge sunken wrecks. That it returns home every five years, fat on the spoils of adventure.
These legs have seen history, dredged up fragments of memories still in physical form. I wonder what eras this crane has touched. Which museums its endeavours have filled.
Blackberries grow behind the camera, this year's crop has begun to ripen.
I don't think I mentioned it before (or long enough ago for me to forget), but if you're after some amazing writing, then pick up a copy of the Hidden Sussex anthology- it's been published recently by the Writing Our Legacy team to encourage and promote BAME writers in the area. (Disclaimer: I'm a board member, but that doesn't change the quality of writing. )
A lot of the writing focuses on migration, journeys, feeling out of place, culture mix-ups, and that sense that we all have of belonging and not quite belonging at the same time.