The Iron Hem

The scaffolding breathes in red flakes, a slow exhaled rust settling on the pavement where the train used to scream through the throat of the valley.

Ivy has found the hollow rivets, winding its green pulse through the steel ribs, tightening a leafy corset around the skeleton of the factory.

Rain is a percussionist on the corrugated roof, playing the rhythm of forgetting, while the clock face, long since shattered, holds the shadow of a vanished noon.

Everything is softening at the edges, the hard geometry of human will dissolving into the patient, wet earth, one orange grain at a time.