York to London

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.