Destination


The conductor announces the next station stop
pauses, slightly, for a few seconds of intercom fuzz
then lilts into a list of the cities of Britain:
Bristol, Chesterfield, Bolton-le-Sands,
rolling each syllable out like an old sea hand
marking his time on deck.
Another pause here and an intake of breath
Newark, Sheffield
slow now,
as if he’s wandered off somewhere,
just like all the holidays he’s had
and so he adds to the list Sunderland,
Brighton – he remembers the lights
as they glowed brighter there, how
gusts of wind helped yellow the beach.

The sad drift of a mechanised cuckoo hum
takes over our carriage once the kid who gets off
last and forgets his mother, quietly,
as if she’d never been there, has gone.
The below seat heating has been trying to be heard
above the train’s loud, gaudy swagger
and now slips over us in a rush
of first kiss fanfare, the air hot and wet
like a lover’s breath in an ear
and as we reach our destination stop
I can still hear the conductor
stuck telling us his city litany:
Liverpool, Norwich, Exeter, Kirkcaldy,
as if not sure we all are
where we should be.


destination2