Train of Thought

Sun strikes clouds, strikes me, hard in the face. In the face of it. Then sadly the banks rise and for a while there is a subterranean feel. Mmm, nice pen, nice paper. Book a little small, but suitable for journeys, journals. The train is calming. When do you relax? When I am on a train. Swoops of birds over fields and buildings painted in golden light. The rhythm echoes the womb I can only assume. The toil of the day is realised and I could so easily sleep. This is also cutting down to one coffee. And there are the graffitied carriages, discarded, or are they home to the hermit? Slowly everything turns pink, but there will be no delight tomorrow, I know it is going to rain. Sheep sprout out of fields like mushrooms. A man pushes a skinny trolley full of temptation down the aisle. If I push my head to the window I can see a scribble of sunset. My phone sparkles a message; it is nice to be loved. Grey boxes of Basingstoke and tingles of pins and needles in my right foot. Orange ticking electronic clock counting my life away. The sky rolls from pink to purple to grey, which suits the land’s industrial mantle. Pylons are strange stick men marching along the landscape and we are out of town and can breathe again and are at ease again. Christmas lights light up little villages, the back drop to celebrations we are not party to. The last lines of fire make a dragon on the horizon and so maybe I will come back.