It is a car town, so you have to radiate further outwards,
where the cattle grids shake you from the misty revery
of all the Thomas Hardy you never read,
the empire emotions that seemed to spring forth
from nothing at all.
You pass the wild ponies in a slow motion gauze,
wonder how "Chariots of Fire", a film you've never seen,
filtered men, running on a beach, the same, towards Paris,
1924, and then you think about sports washing and
how the Olympics, the World Cup,
wherever they have been and will be are all the same -
a complete erasure,
like how Hardy erased Bournemouth into Sandbourne,
though he was speaking truth, albeit to Victorians,
who I see bleeding through the long straw and wheat reeds
of cottage roofs along the way,
bleeding through the packed stone of houses,
they spring forth and from whom I
want nothing at all.
the misty revery/ of all the thomas hardy you never read. relatable
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