all paper is past, all past paper

- inspired by the work of Two Rivers Paper in Watchet

The train whistle rips his thoughts, taunting 

the papermaker as he leaves the sleek, concrete 

bunker by the sea where he makes his paper now.

Again and again, his mind drops to that clouded vat,

feathered and murked with cotton shreds suspended,

drifting below the surface. A stilled snow globe.

He dips the deckle under, his hands swallowed 

whole, before resurfacing with his catch.

He nudges the flecks to a thick, even layer.

Water clatters from the edges, hammering 

dents into the thick white soup – surface dancing. 

He lets liquid fall, pulling from the pulp

to form a neat pad, tender as piled pigment.

One press of a thumb and it would be ruined,

its face shredded and returned to mush.

But this will be couched, pressed, pegged out to dry,

each sheet its own texture and space to catch light - 

and venture the line of something like a future.

He lets them rest there, at the workshop down the Line, 

returns home to Pit Mill, with its waterwheel thump and

stonewash chill, wedged in that space beside restless trees.