Not directly connected to this poem,
but a reminder of the retreat house where I was staying
The sultry, sun-baked station hums with haste
And hurry – excited schoolkids taking flight
For they’ve misread the live departure boards;
Two gentleman in top hat and tails – despite
The heat – walking with affected gait;
Bright young things taking selfies for their mates,
Their fascinators flapping in the breeze;
A used car dealer with his trader plates:
Even a grey, tall friar, dressed in white,
Who tries – and fails – to keep a cool restraint
As in the melee one converging thong
Swoops down the platform to the coming train.
I pick my burden up again. Last night
While trudging through a slurried field I heard
A trinity of kite just overhead
Who called like seraphim, and then observed
How in the sun’s declining light an old
Gnarled oak was set ablaze but did not burn.
Now as I jostle for my seat, my heart
Already yearns – I know I must return.
The writings of Revd Tim Buckley 