Sunday Evening

by Richard Vince

As the lights change from
Orange to white it feels like
Everyone else is going away
While I'm the only one
Heading homewards.

The blue sparks and the
Intertwining threads of silver
Are left behind, and we are
Left with four parallel lines,
Striking a path through
The endless, flat expanse of
Forgettable countryside.

I, however, remember well
The oddly shaped lakes and
Man made channels in which
I once saw a heron, and
The new estates brushing up
Alongside the railway line, and
I might even miss this least
Memorable portion of not a lot,
Punctuated by the odd town
That is best left hidden in
The darkness of this January evening.

This is probably why I don't
Read on trains, even when I
Can't see anything out of
The windows; even memories
Of the most banal things
Seen once draw my thoughts
Into lands full of interesting
Sights that may otherwise
Be eclipsed by the world outside.

All the faces around me
Tell stories too...
Eyes still tired from
Last night betraying a heart
Tainted with sorrow for
The leaving of loved ones
And the towns they call home.
Even eyes closed in that
Most curious of slumbers,
The on train nap, reveal
Something hidden inside.
Other eyes watch the
On board displays, hoping
For the end of the journey
To come soon.

This moment in which
We all head the same way
Is, however, merely one
Small part of the hundred
Journeys to a hundred destinations
That each of us here has
Been making since a hundred
Different days. And soon
We will scatter like stardust
And never think of this
Hour again.


Posted on 01/05/2004
Copyright © 2022 Richard Vince

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Richard Trotter on 01/06/04 at 12:02 AM

very vivid and lonely, a good read.

Posted by Amy Niggel on 01/06/04 at 01:16 AM

a beautiful image I liked this one a lot actually good job

Posted by Kara Hayostek on 02/17/04 at 09:24 PM

congrats on potd

Posted by Anne Howe on 04/21/04 at 09:34 PM

wonderful ...i feel like a raindrop on the window observing all ..... excellent read

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