On a train, the window-world
marches bleakly past,
flickers of lives briefly unfurled,
file solemnly by, an office grey line.

Travelling further, the city recedes,
Traversing new landscapes,
filling my mind, a thousand places.
Trees and fields, broad open faces
gazing up at the low flat sky
urging past, pushing forwards,
the train presses through, as we fly

Clouds shred and scurry,
patches of light
washing the land,
green fields sprayed
mustard yellow, rush past.

The clatter and squeal signals
Next town approaching.
Green turns to brown,
Spreading burning and smoking,
I feel the drag,
Of lives screaming past.