ON A TRAIN

Woods

Autumn passed me by in a blur
reds, gold, and brown streaked by as brush
strokes on canvass while the train chugged
on its tracks. A black mirror snaked through the forest floor
multiplied the earth and skies once and several times more.
A man stood on a field still green, being chased by his dog
my reverie was broken by a child crying out of her mother’s hold.
The sun scattered diamonds on the window pane
Too late did I mark the passing scene –
a woman sat on a bench under a flaming tree
a book on her lap,
on her mittened hands a steaming cup of coffee.
Everything disappeared, just when I saw them –
the woman, the trees, the world, and time.
Who is passing who? Is it the world or is it I?
Would that I could be in the moments gone by.

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14 comments

  1. Such deep thoughts to compliment that colourful but fleeting shot. I missed your blog Imelda and hope you are doing well. Glad I found you again. ๐Ÿ˜€ โ™ฅ

  2. Who is passing who? I find delight in this question. It is one that I keep coming back to, again and again. I experience an enjoyable sense of companionship in reading this piece. Thank you for checking out my blog, as in doing so you gave me yours.

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