Train

You love the empty carriages, the spell
of silence of the journey with just
the droning, the smooth rumble
carrying you on.
The ground blurring out of the window
with its two running lines, time
staging its own course, the rich
frost of the early morning and a buzzard
stretching its wings on a mound
in a grey brown field, a web
of damp tawny hedges, you sit on air,
on dots full of their own light drumming,
the rhythm of things that keeps gazing onward
and makes you think you can go
straight down through the thereafter
marking the various shapes of clods of days
in the sailing mirrors of your irises,
sensing that nothing, while going, will leave.