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.
