Looking and looking until it forgets what it’s searching for

Openly flying,
we scuttle on cold, black
winter’s rails
through country under snow,
the things of the world
against white
are the prints of the crow
before
the take-off, when
the sky is muddy
and sorry on meeting,
expansive and trapped,
we touched the window
and the coldness there
made us know
what it is like to be
nature without care,
the unashamed nature
which presses you through the
front door
and under the cracks
when the draughts bumble in,
they make excuses,
the bath tiles are
cold with it all,
and the train refuses
to stop despite this fall
of snow,
heaviest this year, I think
they said.
And I bought a return ticket
and then realised
I wasn’t coming back.

†