Rails

I sit with my backTo the trackSun peeping
overThe hill like the scalpOf a lucent
spyRising shy over the crestOf a newspaper with
twoEyeholes cut in it.A row of poplars are giant
earsOf corn and an oak's haemorrhagingBranches map
a frosty cerebellum.The fields are sheetedLike
vellum. The buffet wagonAdvances up the aisle,
ladenWith colour and crinklingEdges. I scuff my
pocketFor change.The carriage
heelsAs we approach ManningtreeAnd the
womanDazzled perhapsBy the bow-legged
silenceOf a pylon, orBy the sudden
flightOf three geese fromA pond and their
goslinghoodAllows the coffee cupTo
fallFrom her rumpled palmHotSteaming like
tundra.I am baptised.