Rattle, Roll

The train’s call is a thin pre-dawn bellow.

It slides up a riverbed slick with rain and secret in mist.

There is the urgency of momentum – thrum of diesel ever more strident as a rise steals the power.

No passengers, just a driver in a room of iron, eyes following a yellow beam.

It is a parade of bent trees, sheds in shadow – ever on, ever on – liquids and grains in long grey tombs.

South today.

Not that you would know if it were going or returning: it is just a lump of sound caught between the lines,

pressing past shadowy roads, fields floating in snaking mist, figures at windows – alone, together, moving.

The rattle,  the precision, a driver, eyes fixed on nothing.

A low cantankerous moan in the night

 

 

3 Responsesso far.

  1. A2Kdavis A2Kdavis says:

    Nice word usage here: strident, iron, tombs, cantankerous…to name some 🙂 Enjoyable read.

  2. john keast john keast says:

    On track by the sound of it.

  3. Dean English Dean English says:

    Hi john: the ‘Train’ has started a little poem warming up in my yard, and I hope to put it in the tracks soon!

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