Overland

The train twisted around outlying hills
And snaked through valleys which we saw yesterday,
Clothed by dampened turf and wintered white-limbed trees
That stood out barely against uncertain clouds,
And now in the darkness their presence noted
By the slow careful clack of rails at each curve
And lonely houselights clinging to blackened slopes.

A few hours ago we were in the plain of the city
Enmeshed in the networked orange glare,
That showed vaguely the low roofs of suburban streets
And the bases of spires of slated churches
Still visible as the train departed, passing through
The tired throbbing red of crossings, flanked by
Headlights from all directions with their dazzled drivers,
Warning bells fading and falling drearily away as we sped on.

But now it seemed that we were even higher,
As the train ascended and levelled, so it seemed,
And the train sped freely, past subdued hedges,
The slow swaying of the carriage now gone,
Replaced by a steady sureness, as of going home,
The train wheels rapidly scattering away beneath,
And the engine, seen ahead only by the lightbulb
That winked alone in the cabin, whispered clouds of smoke
That waft under blue-steeled night to the sprinkled stars,
Then drift to rest, and then to sleep.

     Copyright: June 1, 1996 Thomas Fitzsimmons