In the early hours, I come out to lean in the empty corridor of the
train, as it’s crashing and lurching through the night.
    A liquefied dark scrub, and paddocks where silverish-grey mist is
rising, slowly as a stirred moon dust.
    The orange moon, like a basketball fumbled on waste ground, is
bumping among the tops of a dark forest.
    In the frosty, thick night a single farmhouse light floats wetly as
a flare.
    I have lain awake in such a bed, and it has seemed to me, also,
it would be sufficient to be one of those carried within this wind-
borne sound.
   (And I remember the mail train: a fine chain of lights,, as I stood in
the paddocks of a wintry dusk. Its sound was that of wind through
the swamp oaks.)