Gary and Standfast live on the lip of the rail bridge,
under which the Flying Scotsman passes
every 46 seconds, before fluming into a tunnel.
N gauge pedestrians cluster on the station platform;
each one comes up to their knee.
Standfast likes to lie on his side in the village,
gazing into the painted window
of the sub-post office, squinting at little boxes of Force,
black-red daubs he imagines are Mars bars.
At night, they follow the battleship grey road
up to the hillside, curl up beneath elms,
with cheeks pressed to the sunrise.
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