Committed writers dedicated to working together to produce excellent poems, short stories, drama, life writing, and creative non-fiction

Why not contact us for more details about our small, mutually supportive monthly meetings? Don't be shy. No need to be brave!

Sheila 01823 67 28 46

Valerie 01884 84 04 22

Tuesday 27 May 2014

Train Windows

When I stick my head out of the moving window, the dark lets me in, rushing past my head, brushing all my hair right back, smoothing all of me. There is no other way I know of feeling so alive and thrilled so quickly. Head in : normal, machine-world, head out : wild, dark-eyed world.  Heading into stations, the train-chug, minimal train-chew carries me as though I'm young and on my father's shoulders. We swing into the suburbs, Christmas-like lights of red and white lining the way. City smells begin to envelope and we swing about, not steady enough, held by the door. You can't help imagining what would happen if the door swung open, you finger the handle, so close and possible. Unless you look carefully, you could brush your head, or worse, much worse, against the tall poles that parabola towards you. The rails start to slice sound, metallic and smooth, giant dress-making shears. We switch tracks, heading directly into solid walls, veering away at the last minute. All the time, the air is flowing straight through your head. This awakens everything, all thoughts pop open, you are keen-eyed.  Thankful that your lower half is anchored in the warm, electrically-lighted, carpeted, inside world, that you really live in. You swing into the station, swerving to the other tracks. You glide, elegantly and high pitched, up to the stationary platform, your hand reaching for the outer handle, with the window pulled down as far as it can and up to the full length of your arm.  You can right- angle the unwieldy chunk of handle, a smooth, rounded utility handle, still working after decades of hands.

© Isabel Hare
All rights reserved

No comments: