THE WORM’S SLEEP

The great white worm that tunnels through the chalk, Cromm Cruaich’s Serpent, has fallen still. Its iron spine, once glowing with the fire of the forge gods, lies cold. People cluster at its mouth. Children denied entry to the sacred mound.

St Pancras fills with the sound of boots on stone, travellers staring at screens. Omens in light. A young man holds his girlfriend’s hand their Paris feast a broken dream. A woman speaks of being turned back, of the train halting deep within the worm’s belly. Swallowed whole.

At Folkestone, lorry drivers wait in lines that curve, sharing crisps and coffee.

Engineers work with hammers and wires. The new year waits like a promise in the other world.

the serpent sleeps
one breath shuddering
through its cold spine

Paul Conneally
30th December 2025

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Photograph: ‘Russ Ralph Reading Steam World’ by Paul Conneally December 2025