Robin Fulton
In Touch
Everyone's setting out in the mist. Paris
is in a cloud somewhere: the plane knows.
I take a night-train west.
Dawn.
Hour after hour of birch-boles in the mist
like the white sticks of a blind population.
A notice saying 'Charlottenberg' is the first
clear message, in letters so huge
only the blind could fail to read them. We cross
an invisible border and the train pauses.
(There's a virtuoso blackbird like a pianist
playing alone in an empty hall. Another
plane, remote and high: it'll home in
on an intangible safety-net of voices.)
The forest continues. My thoughts of you are a mist.
My memory has retreated to my finger-tips.
Page(s) 22
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