Oak leaf, Tudor rose, Celtic stone. A chiselled plinth for ninety-one souls: they were a wall unto us, signals, guards, reserves. (25/68, 'White Thorns', 2017)

In every window a crucifixion, the same vision darkening the pane, the numbered stations dividing each reflection. (24/68, 'White Thorns', 2017)

The village sleeps on. Yellow cones at the junction, late cancellations. There is something in the way, a flaw in the formation. (23/68, 'White Thorns', 2017)

The village is split. Incomers, taking the west with them, restoring the old names, a boundary stone, whit of the covenant. (22/68, 'White Thorns', 2017)

Water divided from water. The sheds and kilns now white verandas. Pits effaced by fishing lakes and proprietary flags. (21/68, 'White Thorns', 2017)

Glebe Farm, Godnow Bridge, a model of the old world, the lamplit detail. And once there was a station, with goods and figures to scale. (20/68, 'White Thorns', 2017)

The dials are dimming. One by one, the high numbers slip through my fingers. No instruments to measure the rise or fall in pressure. (19/68, 'White Thorns', 2017)

A team in the trees: two nightfishing, three stoking a soft bankside fire. Scorching holes in the darkness, small thoughts at a small hour. (18/68, 'White Thorns', 2017)

I have lost the grid. The alloys go to pieces, the lines curve away. As textiles fret and bobble I buckle and unbuckle. (17/68, 'White Thorns', 2017)

A swing bridge, asleep on a pivot. Beyond it, white picket. Medge Hall. A switch in a signal box, the levers of the night watch. (16/68, 'White Thorns', 2017)