The rattle of the train.
Click clack.
Click clack
as it rolls over the tracks
sounds dimly in my ears
silencing my fears
of not going anywhere.
For I have forward motion
in this locomotion
riding in my empty carriage
enjoying solitude.
This, my private suit of armour
that protects me from the rain
that falls outside the train
and keeps me safe within, gleams
brightly in the lights
that flash by in the night.
But this security is fragile
(as am I, under my bravado)
and the Princess in her gown
will soon face the dying town
dressed in stark reality
and the bitter tragedy
of a London evening
in the rain.

© S. McLean 1994


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