Sunday, November 21, 2010

The Hiawatha

Squat and fleeting farmhouses
Across the window of a moving train.
They are markers of a bygone era,
Of a past that was not mine.
In a depot of a town
Between the city I live in and another,
Molded wood of a stationhouse
Has given way to masonry
And effacing in my mind
Urban legends of molded wood.
In the ensuing hour,
When sights and anticipation meet
In the Quiet Car of the train,
I pass the sedge of wind-blown pastures,
Then well-tended lawns in late November.
Soon, rusted factories
In an unscrubbed part of the city
Come into view with its
Imagined smell of smoke.
I rub my eyes of sleep,
Looking up into the gleam of glass
And its reflection below
In the river of life.


Rebekah said...

Last night I saw the reflection of a low, gold moon moving in black creek water. The "water" in this is beautifully different and similar, full of thoughts.

Cha sen said...

Yes, reflections are such a fount of inspiration - in water, on the glass of buildings...