Chimneys pour into cool sky. Sizzle, spit, steam – but this spray is of fossils and the bones of trees.
Five of them meet every week in the shadow of the factory wall. Their faces are smudged, hard to make out. Take the picture to the light, by all means. See? You can scarcely discern Matthew. You wouldn’t know it was John.
They’re all in the dark now, of course. Your great-aunt Martha went to visit them, twice every week, until–
You go if you like. Don’t expect me to come along, mind. Visiting hours are five to seven on weekdays.