Half a mile away across three fields
the diesel train looks like a red bodkin
pulling trackside trees into a ruche.
Tromboning the tracks,
sunshine bouncing off each passing window
flashes me into a safe mystery.
I have already visited this place,
where nothing changes, or needs to.
Curlicues of elder stitched
on a hawthorne screen,
on a hawthorne screen,
mallards rinsing. Perhaps I will stay.
But the red diesel bodkin pulls a small void
behind it through the ruche.
Woods re-form into fenland horizontals,
the trombones note goes limp.
It was the same once before, I think.
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