Redraft: Unfinished sketch for psychogeography project.

Here was hawk hovering high above tangled briar.
Gnarled stem and unchecked thorns run through twisted metal. Sheets of rusting corrugated iron punctured by bramble.
Here was foxes swift trot, unhurried, unharried except by the torchlight swift shadow of lead thieves.
Here lay slate, broken into four pieces, one big, three small on ground of rust coloured puddles.

Up there was a bow window, jutting over a road. Up there was grandeur, windows intact as if in respect to the memory of men who in years gone by smoked and worried about dwindling sales and foriegn markets
Here was badger, black, white and red in tooth and claw, her set abandoned as diggers roll in and the jaws of metal roughly paw and scrape at the earth.
There, in that patch of sky, were oily grey clouds, reflected in oily grey water of the pond that formed in the foundation of a building where strangely the door frame had been left standing like the single tooth a stinking hopeless mouth.

Accross the fetid rainbow slicked surface skimmed the shadow of starlings, a flock big enough to funnel, weave and turn as if folding the air. Then settling again on red brick walls all askew, half brick endings, undaunted in flight by the remaining wires strung between buildings, reminding me of communications in some trench in a war being forgotten by the minute.
The little birds just bobbed or dipped. Then landed and waited again. What they waited for I do not know.