I had the map but all the way I saw the journey we made last time, the cast iron signs we followed like a creed, the loose light that toyed with dyke and hedge till we believed our right to water, holy or profane, was divine, like us: we lost our way. And seeing what I hadn’t seen before, bog cotton sown when millhands on the cure coughed their lung-fluff out to the salt clean wind, and rocks dyed khaki when lads with shredded shadows throated the iron water to sweat the trench rats from their pores, seeing them I saw the smashed well stoop in a nest of hawthorns and the sinking tin warning: this water’s unfit for litigious times; but the stream still split the limestone and light, like hushed-up stories splinter into every map of now and mortally thirsty, I arrived, and drank hard.
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