Wonder

Very dark outside.

I’m on a standing train

by a window, wondering

how to write again,

when I pick up a book

by MacNeice

- a tatty paperback

and there’s an unknown poem about

‘a Window’ from half a century back.

This poem’s a moment

hanging in time and space -

and, if I could, I would talk

to him on alienation, I would mention

a window and how, outside, it’s dark

but light inside – how it is -

and how a train can go slow

until lights in the far, far distance

blur and pass, blur and pass;

wondering how we’d connect.

Death, ambition, even love

are not around – but moments

flashing. Each one unexpectant

like on a train, beyond a window.

So I pick up a pen

and I wonder.