A curtain of ferns
spreads at eye height
to a child and parts
from the push of a hand
to expose
the shrinking clearing
and the treasure at its centre:
an ancient sleeper
laying like a sunken casket
and shrouded by a puzzle
of oak leaves. The specimen
ornamented with metalware:
rusted plates and bolts,
brooches carried by the dead
to the next station of life.
Close the curtains. Change the scene.
A figure stands at the end
of the platform, his face masked
by a flag. Steam
spirals around him,
a spire above rows of sleepers.
There is one line
drawn from childhood
through junctions to connections,
and the destination is close
to definition.
I feel the platform vibrate
from something about to begin.
The figure sounds his whistle.
His flag drops
and it is my face unmasked
and time to leave this dream
and I see it now. The trackbed
has lost its track and I have lost
track of time. I get up
to check my phone
but there’s no signal
and my daughter is asleep,
habitually dreaming
of a better life to travel in
and I see it now.
The ancient sleeper
is a relic, an inherited burden,
second-hand history.
I step outside
and the first engine of the day
sets out light and I see it now:
I know what to do.