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.