Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

I must get down from the night train,
desert the dreaming coach, let the curtains remain
brushing heated windows, and set out on foot
printing the snow beneath my shiny boot.
This is the border and your country’s edge.

Here, pine saplings are stripped new and white
like nerves. Come sunrise, they are trapped in light
falling on sidings, huts or a shivering gull’s breast,
the guard’s epaulettes, intensifying the orange zest
of barley sugar neon round the national badge

In the small apartment block, dull lamps come on;
policemen’s children argue and scoff breakfast. I’m here alone
with my identity papers curled inside my glove,
my clothes richer than myself. I hope to prove
why I’m seeking to stay. There’s no hedge

to my bets - these red-stamped papers are made by me.
Any fine-line faults he detects, I’m arrested immediately.
He’ll hunt me with heavy dogs as I break out across
already melting fields. Who cares? I’ll run for it. They’ll toss
my cards in the bin. At your city of lights beyond the ridge,

hitching tankers on the autobahn, ignoring the slush, I will arrive
filled with your territory. I’ll be your scholar, hear your life,
hold your hand. We’ll spoon dark meats, lie low, stare at the flood rising up the bridge. Stand talking under trees. Share our reward from tournaments, like joyous people of a golden age.

No, wait. What if it proves impossible for us?
Reflecting, you might just buzz
security, phone someone in authority
on a hotline. I’ll be handed to the military.
What’s done can be undone; our past can change.