Rain on a carriage
window
The train has stopped.
Beyond a barrier of glass
grey fields; by the track a broken fence,
ditch, reeds, dark scrub of bramble.
Towards the horizon tall trees, wires, towers,
denote a nameless town.
We wait, watching the droplets of rain,
tadpoles of light, that sliver, quiver,
coalesce, then slip to oblivion.
Somewhere at the front of this train, a locomotive
hisses or growls, awaiting a signal
for the main line, or maybe the branch
- we are no longer sure.
Time is here suspended. Our way defined
by tracks untravelled, a route unknown.
Only raindrops, quick, elusive as thought,
gently tease at memory.
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