TGV

 

The sun is still low

As the train gathers speed,

Knifing westward 

Through the wakening fields.

 

There’s mist in the hollows,

But the steeple is crowned with light 

Above the clustered village 

Where an old man walks alone.

 

There is something healing

In the fact of movement.

You do leave worries behind,

If only for an hour.

 

In an hour you will be yourself again,

With all your familiar self-torture;

For now you are only a speeding body

On a French train, headed west.