A Walking Poem

 Something of an experiment, composed by dictating into my phone as I walked into town, I've left most of the phone's misunderstandings in as happy accidents. It's invented a word, clever phone. Anyway, solvitur ambulando and all that, and not, as my phone seems to think "solitary ambulance". The boundary between human and AI is ever more uneasy. 

It is the end of spring or it's the start of summer, the liminal space between the two, where it's hard to tell where one season ends and another one begins, but we're all worried we rule worried because there's been too much sun too much son.

And because we are english because i'm a fault state, it's worry we think of ourselves is that it for the year, gotta be it for the year. For me, a man in his late 40s is walking a country line. Thinking about where he's up to.

Tolerating the cars with ill grace because I'm at the age where I'm wondering where I'm up to, I'm at the age where I'm wondering how I've done, I'm at the age, when I'm wondering how I measure my life is this enough, am I? Enough what's the score.

Sunderland late afternoon streets.

Think it's happening. What's everybody? Why are all the cars were white? 234 white cards. A slight breeze to shift the droughly days, no more than that.