The Northern Line

and the northern line heads north;
train and tarmac traverse forgotten agriculture
whilst against a dull horizon
the seeded rape in swathes of brushed yellow,
tractor scared, deep cut fields
frames, for a second,
the lightning split tree
that dares to bloom.

and the northern line heads north;
fleeting sheep being picturesque
cathedrals, greenery and greed juxtaposed,
the saintly and the secular
the modernist and the medieval
give way to cemeteries
filled with the unremarkable and the overgrown.

and the northern line heads north;
soon passed the ubiquitous supermarket,
factories and silos waiting to rust,
silent Sunday football pitches
scale modelled on the Somme under foot.

and the northern line heads north;
leaving hotels named after far away places,
a taunting to where you’d rather be
as more luggage and life stories
are tucked neatly above the sadness
that occupies every seat;

and the northern line heads north.

© D. Archer May 2014

My Seven Seventeen

I saw you smile to yourself
through the window on the train;
you didn’t notice me
smiling at you
through the window
in the rain;

the mist on the glass
it must have been
that blocked your view
of you to me;

it must have been the mist
on the glass that made you miss
the words I asked.

Into your music
with a pleasured look;
you combed your hair
without a brush;

the train pulled first
shunted my chance
into the sidelines;
you departed with the rain
and left me standing
in the sunshine;

So, if your smile
was meant for me
I’ll still be here tomorrow
platform two,
seven seventeen.

Poetry is hard

Determined to write poetry
on my homeward bound train,
just to prove a point to myself
and to exercise my brain.

I borrowed some paper
and on my knee rested;
although jolted I jotted
down images suggested
that quickly turned hackneyed and trite,
so I stopped writing poetry
and drew a cat on a motorbike.

 © Copyright D. Archer October 2011