We take slow trains to London moving clack- br clack past back door and yards sculpted in junk br with treasure troves of things they thought they loved; br sheds and beds and secret hiding places, br biding spaces where a subtle peace comes br in the company of tools, and little br pieces of life spool out in dormant dreams br of better vegetables and jobs not got. br Coffee cups unwashed gather dry dust of br fading wishes. From inside the train's fug br I send a passing hug to denizens br of suburbia; all the dads and mums, br toddlers and teenagers building artful br lives amidst those backyard boneyards of hope.