A poem by Will Burns.

Strange motion dreams these last days.
Depressing hotel room sleep.
And lack of it.
Odd love of railway freight passing
in the train window.
Corn stubble 
and disoriented late-year warmth, warehouses. 
Repurposed red brick,
piles of pale gravel in different shades.
Movement of black in clear skies—
only crows and wood pigeons.
Songless, these hills I am travelling back to, always.