Telegraph poles - passing trains,
Deep snows and Autumn rains.
Mountains sliding into view -
Wooden shacks and bitter brew.
Shrieking blackness and tunnel whisper,
Nothing vocal and nothing vista.
Out again and into living,
Settle down to books that are gripping.
Slow monster into siding
Water dripping from hose and rigging.
Heating on and smoke fumes burning,
Blinds clack up and sight returning.
Speed regained and on we rush
Through woods fir green
And brown low brush.
We lazily dream of scenes unknown
And quietly stretch our legs and groan.
Tomorrow will herald another day
Of rocking down the permanent way.