A vacant road,
A conveyor belt
On a vacant landscape,
Rotating beneath the weight
Of an engine,
That seems still
In the light of its own making,
Burrowing into the darkness

A corner turned,
A piercing eye
Peering through broken slats
At ghostly gums that hover above,
Past fir trees surging forwards
Branches as arms, shaking in shackles
The Titans of nature
Captured by the weight of light

Then a clatter
A bump,
The earth stops for a moment
The eyes tumble forth

One of one hundred
Peering into the lane
It smells like home,
Steel, mud, shit, blood
Driven,
Towards the light
And the clatter
And a caustic smell

The pen fills,
The pen empties,

Silence,
Broken by a shattering squeal
Echoes between the beams
And scrapes the rust from bent iron
The question,
The cry,
Lingers on past the last breath
And infects the night sky

An eye stands in the darkness with 97 others
And waits.