A poem about leaving. Last Call For Whitfield


3 1/2 hours on train in 25 degrees builds a certain momentum to leave. Add this with the deadline of a departing flight to catch. In the time on the train from Milazzo to Palermo the only entertainment was a rather large bee that was flying up and down the carriage. If i could have vignetted the corners of my field of vision it would have been a seen from a classic european film. Everyone was watching this bee with a look of ‘don’t come near me’. It could have run a mock on the packed train. It also got me thinking that when it went backwards down the carriage does that class as time travel?

Last Call For Whitfield

Churn,
On time,
Just!
Mount settle breath.

Sound makes sense,
but I don’t understand.
Round beads form,
Fall like the words.

Moving fast,
Time dam slow!
How long can it last.
Where to look.

And I’m sick of the sea,
straight blue line beauty,
Following me home,
Crashing harrowing free.

A dog sleeps alone.
The platform grown.
Drunk man ego.

Bump!

I arrive,
Get me out,
Away.
To be free…

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