TOMMIES IN THE TRAIN

A steeple

In purple elms, daffodils

Sparkle beneath; luminous hills

Beyond — and no people.

England, Oh Danaë

To this spring of cosmic gold

That falls on your lap of mould!

What then are we?

What are we

Clay-coloured, who roll in fatigue

As the train falls league by league

From our destiny?

A hand is over my face,

A cold hand. I peep between the fingers

To watch the world that lingers

Behind, yet keeps pace.

Always there, as I peep

Between the fingers that cover my face!

Which then is it that falls from its place

And rolls down the steep?

Is it the train

That falls like meteorite

Backward into space, to alight

Never again?

Or is it the illusory world

That falls from reality

As we look? Or are we

Like a thunderbolt hurled?

One or another

Is lost, since we fall apart

Endlessly, in one motion depart

From each other.