Some people read on trains,
Or listen to personal stereos,
Or chat to travelling companions,
But she just gazes out of
The window, at the factories
And the containers piled high
And the distant legions of
Terraced houses, before the
Bustling city at its Sunday rest
Gives way to the trees and fields,
Punctuated by pylons and
Artificial lakes that I now
Know very well...

I wonder if she passes this way
As often as I do, with that same
Strange feeling of not knowing
Whether home is where I've been
Or where I'm going?

In some ways I understand
The desire to ignore the hideous towns
And desolate wastes that meet
The eyes that dare look out
Of the windows, but I cannot
Help but watch the world
Sweep by, and look for all
The colours in the clouds as
They sweep down to the horizon.

Maybe she likes to be reminded
By the power stations and
Distribution centres that
She is in reality, and not
Some romanticised Constable
World that has long passed
Into history, if it ever even
Existed.

And now, as we head towards
Uncharted territory, the rain
Is making crosses on the windows,
But the hope of pale blue sky
Is all around, if only just
Out of reach.

03/14/2004

Posted on 03/14/2004
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince