I am boarding a train with a pain in my paper
and the hope of Versailles on my sleeve
in a picturesque setting
I am setting my sights on ‘home’.
For the things I cannot see,
For the hope that the portrait will prevail,
To the sail I am setting,
or the winds
may we not end in disaster
as the boat rocks
the cabins we cramp.
By eleven, another mother comes,
singing softly of starry nights,
as a tired troubadour,
seeing her eglantine expression in the flurry of fields,
mutters how, ‘this, too, shall pass’.
In the grass, a doe darts in step with the embers of the obsidian engine,
huffing out steam, to the beat of a beaten dream.
Gazing into the open field
I am headed to a city
one where pity is par for the course
and source for a new beginning.