Dust from the red planet rains down and the world renews colour.

Forests burn to cinders.

We hang in a placid pale sky, uncertain where to drop anchor.

Masts of bamboo stiffen, ready to plummet, amid the mis-direction of the rails.

Track laid at foothills. Forever running south.

I remember them gleaming as a child.

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We stall for a moment and stare. The hills are far, too far away.

For now, we stoke the hard eroded ground.

Etching weary paths down to the valley.

And for days we hang in the placid pale sky, waiting for a sign.

Staring straight… Staring at the Blue Hills.