augury doggerel

Wednesday, March 19, 2003


The old track laid out past this place is a token piece of railway. A real train carrying gravel went by once. But the track is a good footpath, smooth and raised like a fashion runway, and it connects a cluster of houses out here with the bus stop. All day, all year, men and women walk to and from work, mothers push carriages and herd toddlers, schoolchildren shoulder in twos and threes. Today, a little black dog waits on the track. It runs up to everyone, lowers its head almost to the ties, wags its tail too much. Some people stop to say hello. Everyone goes on without it.


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