Sailing on the thrum and steel,
westward the silver, sure line eases.
Each boxcar at a smooth delay,
as voices in a choral round.
In sliding frames fit for St.Ives
a landscape airs its carousel:
brushstrokes of woodland, gold-leaf sea,
the sudden, muffled shock of tunnels
with explosive horizon each end.
Flying true, as pen to rule,
surely we ride the veins of England;
surely all other is reduced now to blots;
surely all other is but busy-ness bleeding,
bruising such moments as this.
A Rachmaninoff whirl
the wind and the waves
and black puffins and a black beach
and nothing between us and
the south pole
but this swirling soup.
Let’s stay here
and live in a cave
and at night light a big fire
and remind the rocks
of where they came from.
We can fish with the birds
and roam with the horse
and sing to the sea
and wash in waterfalls.
Feel the warmth of Basalt
absorbing the sun
Listen for ancestors in the wind
and keep on the right side of trolls
and never throw a stone.