THE 3 LONG PIGGIES OF TRUNK CITY
(published 'Purple Patch' 1990)
The place stank of rotten weeds: still growing in flourishing clumps but, nevertheless, rotting right down to their roots. The whiplash throughway wound between variable wastelands, some proudly decorated with scrubby tussocks of rust-coloured plant life, others merely adventure playgrounds with the games removed. In the distance, Matthew could see the blind groping fingers of an earthbound Satan – whose toes came out in the Antipodes, no doubt, within the tolerances of near-collapse, as the relentless winds continued to be panted across the weathered landscape. The City’s other buildings had long since disappeared, by piecemeal dismantlement or simply heavy breathing … leaving only the substructures visible. The skeleton of an ancient motorway system was barely discernible, now nothing but convoluted metal reinforcings. Matthew feared the snorting beasts that were said to hunt for the likes of him hereabouts. Wolves, too, named after a football team that once played in the vicinity, he did not exactly trust them as merely a legend from better days. Werewolves were only one variation, which he could not fathom beyond the nature of their fangs.
Abruptly, the swaddlings of cloud drew apart like sackcloth curtains to reveal the streaming red and gold of a forgotten sun. Matthew bent his forelegs, not in prayer, but so that his proboscis could reach the sparkling sweat-gland under a clump of brown nettles, picked out in the unseasonable light.
The were people perched on the tangled motorway struts started to clamber down on spotting Matthew there.
