A short poem written whilst on holiday in France where, unlike Britain, the rail network is affordable and appears to work.
BY RAIL
The scenery is moving fast,
the present changing into past
so speedily it dulls the mind
as what was there is left behind.
The distant hills, the greenery,
the hulking farm machinery,
the cattle, sheep, sometimes a horse,
are dashes, dots, a kind of Morse
transmitting messages, the kind
received by the subconscious mind.
Enthralled, I watch this moving map,
abandoned novel in my lap.
For verse of a different kind, why not visit: https://www.facebook.com/richard.fleming.92102564/
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