sitting in a carriage
of a train moving north
is to fixate on thoughts
savaged with regret
and tiredness.
each station
we pull into, we are forced
to recollect, move on again,
all attains a pitch
which mounts
almost to violence.
troubles, guilt, pains,
old faces wax and wane,
until we reach our station.
we poor travellers alight
and wait at barriers until
the clack-clack of ebbing life
echoes into silence.
a cold wind cuts our faces
in the sudden dark.
venus and jupiter,
forgotten, gleer
on the horizon:
we are in a heavy place
of cruelty and death.
the gates open:
but just when
my soul is exiting,
a baby's perfect face
appears before me:
his mother him watching,
the child, asleep, eyelids pulsing,
urged gently over the crossing.