postcard one
The lie of this land lopes unfamiliarly to me. pentagons and polygons leap uncharitably into tree canopies quenched with a darker rain. The sort which spits and circles its words into the air, leaving its footprint drawn dabblingly, shadow seeping inward on less saturated ground. It infiltrates quietly, whilst the blanket of night is present, then slips into sun rays after dawnbreak, perhaps pausing for thought under a mist-licked cloud…
I board. The presence of this caved coccoon fires up in lights of the hills presenting themselves as the wheels clatter onwards and further onwards. We traverse thin passes carved in brown-grey stone cuttings, and see the mossy rock splashing with streams, tributaries leaking and letting into the veins, carrying lifeblood further into the beyond.
As birds race my path, i contemplate folding a paper boat, starching its seams, creaking working into flaxen fibre. Holding the too-bright sheet between palms and imprinting perspirational secrets at the edge of a fingertip. Plated with a thin plastic layer then placed atop the shiny ridge,
to break the meniscus and float away, carrying a secret miniscule cargo to find a lost destination just south of nowhere.
A tunnel descends gloomily and the engine heaves a sigh, yet still manages to cough and splutter louder, pulling its haul on further and yet further along this wettened, slippery path. Counting the clicks of the rails singing loudly in this cave, and watching as the white painted arches providing emergeny escape from oncoming thunders drum the audibly silent tryptic beat. A waltz, perchance. Threestepped quickstep. White. Gloom. Dark. White. Gloom. Dark. White. Gloom. Dark. Whi-…
The purring engine suddenly cuts dead and we scream shudderingly to a standstill, the yelp of metal sparks plaguing ears with assault. We are thrown violently forward and mercilessly back in seats, under governance from laws decreed years ago assuming bodies are blocks. Passengers look around to see if there is any clue to why the sudden halt, but no faces know. All painted with the same hue of confusion. The flourescent lights buzz and click, power is severed and we are awash with the stagnant breath of caves, dripping underground brooks and nothing but the distant light at the end of the tunnel for company.
Voices whisper and hiss in the dark, hidden inside this cave, clinging on to the outside of windows with fingernails, descending in through the cracks in the berth roof, shallow echoes bouncing from the plastic interior. Mustn’t grumble. The state of the railways nowadays. This happens often. You can’t get the staff any more. Things aren’t as good as they used to be. It all started going downhill when…
The cold air sends a shiver to skins, yet I note that the tones of a lullingly warm accent speak of somehow better days. The content perhaps a little bitter, but not cutting or scathing. A simple nod in acceptance. A sign of world-weary reassurance. We’ll be on the move soon. Not long now. Same thing happened last week.
In the darkness, as thoughts fumble for a lost pen in the dark, I wonder how strangers caught in the dusks of my native home would react if they were populating these seats. Quieter. Unnoticing. Annoyed at their fellow passengers yet reserved to the point of reticence. Brash, harsh language and heartbeats racing to push the stress and anger as far as possible, whilst uttering no words…
And still nothing. Words formed in the darkness fall silent as little wonders and ponders propagate into thoughtspace. A trickle of a doubt passes in through the leaky window seal, planting a tiny seed in the mind. how long will we remain sat under the land mass of green hill above with no escape? Will the freshly misted wisps of air at the tunnel mouth breathe their way to us?
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