You come to a point in that field, and there
the winds are mussing the crops' long hair,
and out of the next window, half shuttered -
a farmer at lunch, a whirlpool of birds.
The thresh of blurred gravel next to the wheels.
On the far side another one reveals
a moment of bamboo, a flash of fig -
a station rolls past, the platforms - red brick
and yellow signage, commuters everywhere -but it’s diesel now, or clean electric.