Two people are sitting on a train. A poem. 

And then I looked up

out through the window

out to the glowing blur

and I realised, finally, where we were.

No sharp cliffs or distant waterfalls,

or turquoise lakes or lonely trees.

No rolling green of ups and downs

that raw reluctance to touch the ground

so tall

so small

so furiously speeding by

morphing, twisting into cloudy sky.
And so I looked up.

I thought of where we both should be.

Not holding tight and quietly

as if we like it here.

As if we’re proving that we like it here.

As if letting go will bring the rain and thunder and icy breeze

in through that window, shut tight.

As if it wasn’t all just waiting till we stepped outside.

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