A Gentle Word
  

 In the first seat of the carriage
 Sitting like a child
 With big wondering eyes,
 Hands between her thighs,
 
 She looks out on an old world
 Till the mobile rings,
 Then a very sophisticated and ancient
 Anger smirks across her brow;
She studies the text
 With a sharp womanly glance
 Then, a cup of tea to her lips,
 She put the phone by,

 And herself again
 Looked out at this adult world
 Going by through the window
 Of the midday train;

 We’re not in Hungary.
 We’re not in Spain.
 The only constant across the fields
 Is the falling rain.

 After Carrick-on Shannon
 She gave in. Her brown eyes
 Wandered down the long aisle,
 She glanced into a dream,
 
 And slept, alone and comfortable,
 The wide brow in an exotic peace
 Above the upturned fur collar;
 And, out of habit, one hand-
 
 Not quite ready to let go yet -
 Perched tight on the upright
 Handle of the small case on wheels;
 I watched her travel on

 Across the midlands;
 She might have come out of a forest
 Into a clearing; walked with a tray
 Down a Paris street;
 
 She was, even, in sleep,
 On the verge of departure; 
 Prepared to arrive again
 Into a new place:

She straightened her legs,
 Tried out a new face,
 Ready, at any moment,
 To alight on the platform
 
 At Gdansk, and walk the strange street
 To the correct shop. She slept,
 Exotic and innocent,
 And woke at each stop,

 Looked round,
 As she might have done in Prague,
 Ahead of her the many destinations,
 That she had left behind.

 She read the sign with her lips
 And then closed her eyes,
 Read it again to herself;
 No; there was a little way
 
 To go yet, maybe half-way
 Round the world;
 Wake me, consciousness, please,
 Wake me, please,

 With a gentle word.
 I did not see her get off.
 I looked over and she was gone,
 And with a rumble we went on.