I have travelled this way before,
past steaming cattle sheds and lonely churches;
over rivers that flow far from the sea.
It is barely light; dawn perhaps or
nightfall. The train is empty. The past
haunts me like a hunger. Was it really
like this, what I remember?
Did the birds refuse to take flight
and the hills cleave away in shame?
The window turns cold against my face.
Buckfastleigh, Totnes, Newton Abbot –
I try, but the names mean nothing to me.