My daily walk is repetition: along the tracks, then over and then down again and along some more. A song repeats, it regales the journey. The bridge is a metal frame - part rusted - and it dances to the fine tune of rattling beasts that pass us below with chugs and damp, grey, sulphuric plumes. This one, part demon, makes banshee wails; snorting as it hunts, eviscerating the quiet and dragging its thirsty runts. Bleeding black: shining, pumping chem-trails, grunting while saplings sleep. It screams at silent creatures: unblinking, coal-eyed sheep. The hills loll at me agape and we are still; my bag heavier for the words I carry but the sweat of my brow suggests summer as the breeze kicks the rust into my lungs. This one, dishevelled, palpates a jaunt in hot sun; steam licks stunted carriages; shuffling, wheeled ticks. This artery rocks to the swells of pace - absently proactive - the past fades in chugged steam; redacted.