There goes that old man with shoulders hunched, i've seen him before, faded clothes in grey black and brown, thick long straggly matted hair down to the shoulders , slowly , methodically climbing the steep brushy slope next to the park above the canal. With his head  down he scans around his feet, battered hold all style bag over his shoulder, stuffed with stuff. A hoarder, lost and forgotten.  The trees form a canopy over the  mud track that snakes upwards to the ridge, beyond which he must live, only you can't see over the top, we're just guessing this is where he stockpiles his treasure. Probably doesn't stray very far from this small area.  Beyond the top is a small parade of shops with a launderette and a store for basic items, milk, tinned food and the like. No need to go further afield, maybe for years. Not an unhappy sight, just lonely, disconnected, out of step, forgotten but perhaps likes it this way. This solitary backwoodsman of Springfield Park, hiding in plain sight acting out his morning routine in the morning sun that falls short over the bank of trees where the path winds over the ridge. Taking his time looking around, inhabiting his space, largely unnoticed by the comings and goings on the path below where runners, cyclists and dog walkers compete for space. This guy is camouflaged, you have to look hard to even notice him, his movements so small and slow, like rubbish slowly flapping in the breeze.