A carriage – boxy - like a temporary home,
traveling faster than man or woman chanced
a century ago, has luminescence
seeking to split air with its momentum;
a flying caravan that will, one day, age and
crumble, travel back to elemental earth-fire
like every field and wall and mountain rush-
ing past. Inside, newspapers rustle, work-harden
and people shout into their mobiles ‘I’m on
the train..’ often with a patronizing
edge, smug, inside a metal cylinder.
Perhaps big torpedoes feel secure
and, for a while, defy space-time and all
our hard-to-face inevitable fresh decay.