I am the blur of
smooth pebbles,
a clouded silhouette
of petal blooms
holding to the railway timber.
I fall to the rush of the last train
raging past as sudden
as a storm; its

sides etched
like frescoes decorating
ancient cavern walls
in angry challenges,
the aerosol confessions
of love and hate. Pieces of earth
flashing by; creosote
hangs in the air. Its
throat groans, dry
in this summer drought.
It has seen cooler fields of
meadow grasses, seeded with
blue ponds and well-kept cottages.
Fishing boats, tied and ready.

Still it returns, trumpeting
through the muddle of
lovers and these transitory
scrawlings on the wall.