Here -
Where...locked doors open to sharp knocking..
Where...clotted shoes clamber over torn stile, delayed stone wall and heathland water..
Where...fractured ganglines decide night-time movement..
Where...ribboned plastic roof top windows glisten on oiled doorstep..
Where...seagulls congregate to share daytime information..
is the place language comes to die.
Steve Coel / An 11.59 Publication
