There was hardly any differentiation, between the mist of nature, and the mist created by the warm droplets of the cooling towers
We had left the wharf in Lincoln, good and early, to glide along the canal with the sunrise at our back
I had longed to belong to the water, and here I was on a long boat, a narrow boat, crawling through edge-lands countryside, moving freely, yet seemingly always in a straight line
You can still taste the coal; not so much as in the old days, not since the power stations cleaned up their environmental act, but, with a big gulp of breath you can taste the damp black, the sulphur is still there to be chewed upon
Any good mathematician would be able to tell you that the cooling tower walls are parabolas, or another fancy word that I haven’t used since geometry classes at PGS
Any poet would be able to tell you that they are metaphors, for beauty & isolation; and that love always dies, and one day they too will die
