The Trains

Tunnelling through the night, the trains pass

in a splendour of power, with a sound like thunder

shaking the orchards, waking

the young from a dream, scattering like glass

the old mens' sleep, laying

a black trail over the still bloom of the orchards;

the trains go north with guns.

Strange primitive piece of flesh, the heart laid quiet

hearing their cry pierce through its thin-walled cave

recalls the forgotten tiger,

and leaps awake in its old panic riot;

and how shall mind be sober,

since blood's red thread still binds us fast in history?

Tiger, you walk through all our past and future,

troubling the children's sleep'; laying

a reeking trail across our dreams of orchards.

Racing on iron errands, the trains go by,

and over the white acres of our orchards

hurl their wild summoning cry, their animal cry….

the trains go north with guns.