I had to take the Celtic pattern route out of town to say goodbye to an old friend. With my minimally decorated room of thoughts lugubriously lit I waited on a platform where the trains no longer stop and thought of figures in blackthorn thickets reached through a slip slide path of mud. I moved onto the living platform as the train approached. I then found myself at the church after a spell in a phantom cart - the phantom driver and I talked of being born in a cemetery. Most of the people I met were a draughts piece move away from the present and I jokingly called my contract phone old. I came home as sediment in a beer barrel; rolling into the hedge at the bottom of our front garden just before a lady walked by with her child sat in a Sherman tank - it turned the corner before it fired its gun.