Tuesday, 15 January 2013


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,
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.

No comments:

Post a Comment