Aber Poem...

Train Tracks

Taking the train up the rabbit hole,
watching as Wonderland hazes to the sea,
I'm suddenly glad of the rain; even with
socks smudged black from soaked shoes,
jeans damp and heavy as the thundery clouds.
Its steady pulse regulates weird Wonderland time,
balanced in train-track equilibrium.
Train arrives at exactly 7.22pm,
ticket eaten by automatic machine.
Headphones in, walking mechanically
down grid-streets and pavements.
Shaking the last drops of Aberystwyth from still-damp hair,
the garnet sunset flashes hints of green,
sparks of Wonderland glimmer on the horizon.

Stepping through the looking glass,
time is no longer yours to keep,
bound by bells and timetables.
Not that you're complaining;
there's something calming in the routine,
the safety of the familiar, something
beyond the dusty new-book smell of the stockroom
and the crisp clatter of chairs on tables.
More elusive than the rainbow blur of paint-
palates tipped under a running tap,
more fantastic than Mr. Fox read to
thirty-three captivated seven year olds.
It's hidden in the language of ALS and IEP,
coded in numeracy strategies and grammar.
As you tick through constant timetables,
the setting sun streaks the field golden-green,
and your mind slips just for a moment
over the horizon, down the train-tracks,
westwards to Wonderland.
Luna137 Luna137
26-30, F
1 Response Jan 7, 2013

Thank you. I love it so much, really want to move back!