Slow blue darkness has fallen soft, shade by shade and star by star as he reaches the wooded lane hollow, and he remembers these trees, the dens he made alone, the long hours spent poking a stick into the fly-tip river, searching for the treasure of a marble-neck pop bottle, only to be smashed to salvage the clear pearl, only to be catapulted against the barn wall, the long-spent search full-stopped by the dull pop of shard, the chalky star of impact left on breeze-block, washed away always with the first fall of rain, and behind him now, the dry crackle of corn stirs in the wind as he aims his piss at the barbed-wire, pleased at the hit, of the dew-drops hanging from the grey steel, these teardrop glints under white-eye of hunter’s moon, and now zipping-up he pulls the half-Bell’s from his coat-pocket, draining the last of the amber, the bottle now flighted, swallowed by the deepening dusked wood, now pleased at the crack-smash down below, now lighting a fag and looking into the blue-black pillared woodland below as an owl calls, as another gust of late summer wind shivers the drying canopy of leaf, as he spits onto the sign that says NO FLY-TIPPING, beyond which lies a soiled mattress, a split binbag spewing porn, a bicycle with no wheels, a broken doll’s house, and there are things to be done, and as he turns to walk the lane to the home of his parents, a rook scraws, and the blue night darkens.