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| ©Gavin Evans |
Roaming the wastelands of Teesside is one of my guilty pleasures. The skyline is no longer seared by sentries of flare stacks but the pilot lights of those still standing steer me. The land is stitched together by endless worming pipelines, once the lifelines of now deceased industries. Although the air is still sterile a sharp intake is no longer choked by chlorine.
This night curiosity pressed my foot to the brake. The allure of a lone pill box sinking in a fallow field was irresistible. The concrete catacomb could be the guardian of treasure, dark secrets or detritus.
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| ©Gavin Evans |
I peered in half expecting my gaze to be met square on. Light squeezed through portholes only to be extinguished on an altar of guano and dust. Scratchings on the walls were a reminder of past prisoners or returning tenants.
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| ©Gavin Evans |
A shock of red fur bled on a monochrome altar of debris and decay. The corpse of a vixen lay bathed in a pool of light, the ember in her eyes still smouldered. There was serenity in the sarcophagus, no sign of struggle.
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| ©Gavin Evans |
Had she succumbed to cruel fate or was she awaiting resurrection; sacrificed by a suburban trappist or outfoxed by a sly trapper? A perimeter of rocks traced her, the letter 'W' conjured words like 'wicker', 'wonder' and 'why'? Was their alignment of significance - part of a lunatic's celestial map? Was their placement profound or purely coincidental?
Wandering the wastelands ain’t always a waste, occasionally it can throw up a twisted tail or two.















































