The rain has settled in pearlescent globules
on the fine, flat leaves
of the brambles and bracken below.
Through poorly constructed wire fencing
The corrugated iron roofing of garages stretch out
Overlaying graffiti covered brickwork,
Words like 'zeal' and 'tart'
Sprayed in silver as though they had some importance.
The sun casts my shadow
But it doesn't want the part,
Shrinking away as the rain
Lightly taps against the grey
And white speckled floor.
The yellow line takes comfort in my safety
As wisps of wet pass by my eyes,
I lean against decrepit fencing,
The once white wood that tops the wiring
Leaving a mark across my sleeve.
The trains don't stop at berrylands,
And I don't blame them.