Goodnight to the twin moons
stretched along the railway tracks
outside Roscommon.
My night-time window halved
with those trains rushing across the glass,
strips of film filled with their own lives:
adventurers and bon-vivants,
whose strings of lights recreated as they
passed
the grassy slope, the elder bushes,
the buffer with the hole in the side;
strangers oblivious to such little worlds
and to the boy who watched for apparitions
from his bedroom window.
And in a moment they were gone,
leaving the darkness darker and the boy
listening,
trying to gauge where the sounds
finally disappeared into the wind.
What lay beyond that window-world ?
The station to the right,
the white gates to the left,
and then..........
Now I remember those film strips
sailing through that pitch emptiness;
sometimes they were only ruffed impressions
when the window was full of pouring rain.
I remember how my imagination filled like a
can
when all that was left was the headlight's
beam
over the trees of Bully's Acre.
And there is often disappointment in these
poems;
the disappointment of that place beyond
where the rhythms of trains were reclaimed by
the wind.
