This train swaying slightly,
sunlight strobing through the trees
then gone - as we plunge into a tunnel.
This train our means of locomotion
from H to L, along the rails
predictable, preordained.
This train bound for Leeds
and all that is in it -
shops, museums, dog shit,
fading Victorian splendour.
A silver birch, its trunk wrapped
in white paper, shines
like the flashes on your jacket -
everything reflecting glory
this brilliant day
swaying on this blue train.
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