Friday, 22 March 2013
A train heads west, full up:
Andrew sits by strangers at a window
table. Further back, I rest and so he
chats, twinkles like the sun to
folk who sparkle back. He turns and yells out
‘Daddy!’ every minute, down the aisle, announces
me, my birthday, name, my age, my job, even though
I’m the one supposed to only know my journey’s name
within the secret wrapper of a western face.
Urchin, on a train, has lit up strangers with song
and smile; calls out to his invisible father sitting there
in a rattling carriage – starting to feel warmer -
like a log’s afterglow, like a dozen flames entwined
around a simple prayer to a father from his firstborn son.