Still quite young I have a map for sunday afternoons Going nowhere, just the roar of mountains The whisper of wet tyres leaves a wake On shining roads with a machine-like grace The first reluctant drops of rain Where it pools in my hand Still cupped to lave and scry Sets the mirror of the day to trembling Distant thunder wraps her cloth around my ears I imagine fierce and blinding A ragged sky all crumpled I wonder where those onward trains Where they go, where they leave These smeared signals black and white and red and green Broken tendrils on the pane I have a pocket full of earth To grow a dandelion for my ticket
