Train Window Poems

(a stream of consciousness poem)

Train Window Poems (a stream of consciousness poem)

Four, I suppose.

Curly hair,
dark as loam.

'for mange gamle mennesker',
he says to his mother.

Too many old people.

She kisses the top of his head.

He has no idea
I speak Danish too.

I smile.
Wink.

He stares.

What does a child think
when his assumptions fail?

May yours stay fluid,
little one... 

be water
finding its way through stone.

Wind whips the leaves.

It reminds me of Sweden.

Summers.
A wraparound porch.
Fresh bread.
Warm pine.

Two wooden paddles,
grooved,
painted hearts and blossoms.

I pressed water
from churned butter.

That was my job
as a child.

Play
was my other job.

I took both seriously.

Lilacs grow like weeds here,  

between rail tracks,
through tarmac,

purple,
white.

Butterflies
on the third rail.

They flit,
fluttering
on 750 volts.

Letting the days go by, 

same as it ever was.

The photo is my own, taken during a train journey into London yesterday. I out-painted it to get an aspect of 16:9.