York to London
by Helen Barter
Trepidatious fluttering stomach
sipping tea from a spouted paper cup.
Dried up bacon, from a less than fresh bun,
lodges in my teeth as the train arrives.
Seat reservation made
the line is caught.
Hooked and pulled tight.
Reeled in by the
frantic spooling of an invisible thread
drawing me closer and closer towards
the rod which I beat myself with.
Accompanied by a constant shadow,
now running alongside the sunlight which
catches on the endless track,
flashing through the muffled voices of
suffocating conversations and soporific shrouds.
Ignoring reserved, class, coach, seat C71,
I face the other way.
The tugging line which draws blood from my lip
as I writhe and fight against the future
becomes a safety harness
as I relax, blinkered,
leaning my back into the now.
There is no shadow running alongside.
I am basking in bright sunshine.
My eyes close, and the soporific shroud
becomes a welcome lullaby.
