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Paul Burns

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Sunday Train

I see you have a scar
running round your left eye

as the pagan mounds of unknown hills
slide past the window
you sit uneasily, avoid my gaze
this is a story you would rather not tell

but my eyes are drawn
by the fall of your dyed hair styled
to lie carelessly over the red track
as you hold your head pitched down

you pore over your mobile phone
anxious for messages
ignoring landscapes which are here and gone
you seem to know the fields grow nothing yet

somewhere the lines are cut
the train strays from its usual route
leaving the scenes of our different battles
a needle stitching its own wound
boring through tunnels

until the pressure fills my head
but you sleep through or pretend to
your mobile slipping to the floor
Euston a forgotten life ago

Under March’s open wide
clouded skies, we should close our eyes
and only talk about the blood we’ve seen
in silent dreams

 

Page(s) 12-13

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