Sestina Day 87: Commuter

I wanted to write a train poem, after Philip Larkin. I was also thinking about my friend Constance Commuter – although what she does on the train is use her blog to smackdown on “travelling douchebags”. That’s probably another poem.

Early light, pink and mauve from the window
It seems I’ve been awake several hours
And I’m cooling my cheek on the glass
As the 5.55 express speeds
Trees and bushes all blurring together
Jolted, rattly-bang, out of sleep.

If I could, I would certainly sleep
But instead fix my eyes to the window
In a trance, watch it all blend together
Settle down for the next pair of hours
And I notice the different speeds
Of the things I can see through the glass

For the things that are nearest the glass
Seem to rush past my face, though I’d sleep
I cannot, when each silver birch speeds
Terrifyingly close, past my window,
And I have to survive this for hours
And get off feeling calm and together

I’ve two hours to get it together
Just for now I can gaze through the glass
Make the most of my travelling hours
And as long as I can’t get to sleep
I will dream while awake, at the window
That these frankly ridiculous speeds

Are not needed. Why go at these speeds?
Why not chug through the country together
Let the trees amble on past the window
At a leisurely pace, as the glass
Keeps the steam from disturbing my sleep
On a beautiful trip that takes hours

But I haven’t got so many hours
So I must go at breathtaking speeds
Though I slump in my chair, half asleep
Try to gather my work-thoughts together
Peel my damp, clammy cheek from the glass
As the station pulls up to the window.

I won’t sleep for at least 14 hours
Past the window the countryside speeds
As the trees blur together through glass