Midnight Train
Written for Kristen.
Eleven thirty...
She rushes outside
Her white cotton nightdress swirling
And her thick
Jean coat
Full of warm holes
Cloaks her shoulders
And dry, dead leaves
Crackle quietly
Under her feet
Moonlight
Shining in graceful arcs
Streams
Through her hair
And dear God,
It's beautiful out here
But it is dreadfully cold
And the leaves might hurt
And she might be stepping on twigs--
Or thorns?
--But she'd never feel it
Beneath her numb feet
And yet she can feel,
That's the trouble
It hurts, it does
And the lash-lines from yesterday's briers
Are starkly painful
But then again, she can't quite feel
And she smooths down her hair
Tousled with the soft breezes of the night
That come from stars and not from wind
Her fingers catch in a curl, and she
Pulls loose
A little shiver
And she rests a hand on the glass panes
Of the greenhouse
She smiles, and goes in--
Just for a moment, of course,
She walks on yellow-coloured sand
And imagines that someday
When the greenhouse
Is finished
There'll be flowers in here, and fruit trees
And she can't wait because everything,
Everything will be lovely
In the meantime,
There is no door
And words echo off the siding
So she sings
When the song is done, she returns to the night
She breathes just to see
The cloud of mist from her breath
The world is still frozen; even the air...
She runs down stone steps, nearing a
Towering spruce
She dances,
Momentarily,
Taking the tip of a branch as
The hand of her partner
She twirls around
And wraps herself in cool
Heavy-scented needles
She laughs
And curtsies to the gentleman
Who engaged her in the lovely waltz
A murmuring wind
Blowing through
Tells her,
"Charmed"
Suddenly she hears the first hint
Of what she came for
She tenses, and runs back up
The steps
She glances about the darkness, and climbs up
On their iron handrail
Black paint comes away beneath her hands
And beneath her feet, too,
When she stands upon it
She leans heavy on the lamppost
Wrapping her arms about the cold glass cage
And looks up at the white moon in the sky
And listens
She listens
And there it is...
A train whistle, coming through the midnight ink
Drifting along on seas of stillness
She imagines all the places it will go
She pictures all the people it will see
She wonders what it's like
To sit in a train car
And feel the floor tremble below
Your shoes
And hear the gentle rumble from outside
And sleep in a bed that shakes
Unsteady
And yet fixed in place
She wonders what it's like
To travel
To go to all sorts of cities
And walk around them
With no one knowing who you are
See faces in the streets
And not recognise a single one
Stop in at a caf� and have a cup of coffee maybe
Tip the waitress and go out again
See a book in a store window and know you want it
And go in and buy it
Smile at the cashier
And leave holding it to your chest
And know it's yours
A lot of knowing...
Sure, there'd be a lot of knowing;
A lot of not knowing
But wouldn't it be lovely?
She looks up again
And realises that the train is past
And the whistle is dying down
And fading into the night
And it's over
But wasn't it glorious
And Lord but it's cold
And she'd better go back inside
So she does
And she makes herself cocoa
And stirs it with a silver spoon
And really, it'll be even more exciting when she goes out
Tomorrow night
Tomorrow...
It's going to snow.
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