Steam requiem

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.