? Bank Holiday Today, the is is at ease with what isn’t. The weekday trains not running, the wood of their sleepers lie a trampled orchard in a line, who’s pale ghost-fruit now ripens on the track. Unoccupied, we can choose what dream to open: childhood, or expectations, or that often- raised lid of being somewhere else. I sleep on my back in a foreign town, where the birds are all blue and long-winged, and folk are gifted in the arts of welcome, greeting everything they touch and stretching out to welcome first the midday, then the evening sky. I’ll stay all day here in this company, then leave for home by the longest route afforded to the daydream, and repossess the days I make do with, the unstamped letters, reminders of things I don’t forget; the ghost-fruit lying mouldered on the track.