Photo from Dreamstime

This carriage is older than the one I am remembering in the poem, but it’s the closest I can find in mood……

This poem has evolved from some prompts given by the talented inspirer and grower of poems Kate Clanchy .

As the seasons turn, many youngsters are setting off on adventures, and here I start with a memory of myself setting off for…. well, it’s a mixture of a university open day and later interview. The two figures, the young woman and the older one, were both me to start with, but they have taken on life and stories of their own.

So I imagined being there for my younger self, and reassuring her in a moment of uncertainty and anxiety. The practice of having compassion on your younger self can be a healing one. The older figure could be someone else though – a parent travelling in their mind with their grown child, an ancestor, a guardian angel, the presence of God, as well as your older self. See how it seems to you.

And to all setting off on adventures, and to all they leave behind – whether you are ‘you’ or ‘I’ – may this new chapter bring much good for you.

Train

You are on a slow rocking train
with red and green seats,
you wear a lovely coat, wool,
velvet collar – not your choice.

You are leaving what you know
the city falls away
you are watching out of the window
as a world unfolds

Your hands gloved, your eyes open.
The colours are rich, for it is autumn
you notice the red flush of hawberries

You wonder what this will be

The fields grow flat, the sky large,
there is railway tea in a cup
bitter and strong,

You shift in your seat, pull at your gloves

This is all new to you, so new, all this,
and you do not know that I am with you –
that older woman perhaps, sitting opposite,
who smiles – whispering that this is the right train,
the one that will take you away
to home, home, home.

The cold wind seeps through the window
and you breathe deep,
filling with unaccustomed air

Years ago, years ago while still a child
you stepped through
a magical doorway,
drowned out sharp voices with poetry,
shared other lives as they
spooled out of pages.
You remember this now
as you are held in a swaying seat,
in the rhythm of wheels on track.

Your eyes fall back down
to your book, uncertain.

The older woman looks up,
leans forward just a little
as the train rocks and
sways and sings –
tell me, tell me about the poetry
she says, and smiles.