Night Train.

           Night Train.


Outside the carriage window
The night has become spectral,
A ghost factory of forensic arc lights
Into which we are locked
While apparently speeding by.

I vainly search for houses, hedgerows, trees,
But the rural scene has been made invisible,
Disappeared behind a dazzling cage
Of hallucinatory razor wire.
I wonder where the stars have vanished to.
The people at the stations that we pass through
Look like stranded outcasts.

They stand upon the platforms in small groups
Staring pensively at flickering monitors,
And rarely interacting with their neighbours.
I dare not visualize what they are thinking,
But not one single passenger seems at ease,
Stood under the clock to await the London train.

The view from the window has become almost intolerable.
I close my eyes and try to think of home,
But can recover nothing to give me comfort.
Prison search lights piercing every secret
Penetrate the sanctuary of my dreaming
With the cruel precision of a surgeon`s scalpel.
The  death camp mauer stretches on forever.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
November 20th. - 21st. - 27th.  - 29th. 2014.