A flight of canal locks. A route that should be familiar.
Count the windows from the street. Then count them from inside.
The last bus to Sholver is on time. It is warm. It should be taking you home.
A mill. A night shift. Work that never seems to have ended.
A plantation above Darwen has been felled. Now the ground is giving back what was buried.
A school wall in Werneth remembers the names painted over it.
