A flock of blue gantries is suddenly there
in the flatland, like wading birds
drawn down the wind
from the north. They all face one way, calm
as hieroglyphics, with foreknowledge
of an estuary
so far denied me. Sea into fields, sky seen
through girders, trade routes
into heartland, inter-
penetrations everywhere – miles between me
and Drax, whose cloud-capped
cooling towers
forge endlessly inland, steam unravelling
east and away behind them,
like this train
that feels emptier stop by stop, filling
with distance, that I vanish in
whichever way
I turn. I could be getting somewhere.
Note from the editor: this poem appears in the print edition in a Presiding Spirits article by Philip Gross, On the train with Bill and Basho, in which he discusses the influence of haiku on poetry in English.