Nothing is forever lost, nor do things repeat themselves
Identically, like a train of bus timetable,
Daily or seasonally. Each journey is different.
Last time, there you sat, embedded in memory
Of other interiors, of yesterday night, of childhood
Staring out the window. Probably seeing nothing,
Unaware whether you woke or still afloat on a dream.
This time there’s a fisherman, knee-deep in the estuary
A fox silhouetted, look, loping over a hill brow,
An air-tail Mallard dipping his head in a stream
Or a field greening and yellow, speckled with poppies.
And next time, who will you be, other than another,
Drinking at the station bar, with some fellow travellers,
Swapping jokes and anecdotes, gossiping and laughing
Or swilling whiskey alone, inside your own reflection?
Nothing is forever lost. Nothing is repeated,
Each journey is different.