Rhythm of the rails
strikes a resonant chord
Music for the morning
and the commuter hoard
Newspapers folded
Tablets fired up
with caffeine boosters
from paper cup
Gathering momentum
into the Weald
Heading for London
through Sussex field
Heading into Worthing on
a big blue double-decker bus
My transport for this morning
as there are no trains because
the buggers are on strike again
No Christmas spirit there
No sparkle and no smiles as
Southern Rail just do not care
Yes, I know it’s winter out there
and it’s miserable and wet
But with your imagination
A little summer I can get
It’s really not that difficult
your mind’s eye is what you need
and a willingness to just let go
and listen as agreed
Five thirty in the morning
and I’m out and on my way
It is cold and pretty brittle
at this early time of day
On a train that’s bound for London
warm and cosy here inside
Though my journey takes me northward
to West Yorkshire there I ride
I take the square window and fold it up,
Tuck it inside the small cupboard upon my left lung
And under my heart. The road is a leviathan’s tail
Serpentine across the North American continent,
There is the smell
Of moss and green. A color
Like a thief. Stealing land, smothering
Hillsides and the trees. This
Essence, the Qi, of the
Leaf and blade, settles here
(On my breast) and cracks me open
To lift my heart.
Train a-trundles daily
inland from the sea
cross a river, through the fields
familiar to me
A journey I know all too well
although it differs every day
as the scenery changes
when the weather has its say
No hesitation here
No holding back
A firm foot forward
There’s nothing I lack
No niggling doubts
No worries or lows
No fear of unknown
No concerns and no woes
In the razor sharp clarity
of a crisp autumn morn
An erudite moment
of instinct was born
A momentary feeling
captured and held
Crystallised into form
to fashion and meld
We walk along the path of life’s journey
Not always sure just what we might see
At times we are eager to run on ahead
Wondering with who or what we will be.
Golden rays from the sun on a towerblock landscape
The city rests from the day
And suit-clad workers on the train rattle by
The twenty-past eight on its way
The tannoys are quiet now, the sirens at rest
A brittle peace settles in
But there, in the silence of commuter unrest
A man sits alone with his grin
We’re on a train to London
Six Crouchers and a Jones
We’ve had a cup of coffee
and we’ve charged up all our phones
We’ve eaten all the crisps
and played some guessing games
And when the train passed by the airport
we marvelled at the planes
Travelling to my office
Every day upon the train
I get to see the Sussex hills
and smile at them again
Their undulating rise and fall
The many fields of green
Quite the best view, I would say
That I have ever seen
