Newark to Nottingham, Wintertime

Through dirty windows 
with kick-out glass,
in case of derailment, or worse, 
the Trent is everywhere.


The river is the field is the river.


Open country, 
villages, 
open country,
towns,
open country,
City.


Water, willow banks, 
old horses in jackets,
stacked lumber, yellow gorse, 
down at heel farms, 
a Traveller site,
blue tarpaulins hiding 
something,
held down by tyres.
More horses.


Backsides of buildings, 
yards, backyards,
containers, fire doors, 
a chained dog.
Spray paint:
SPUR, ROOT, ZEM and SINX.
Plastic barrels, scrap iron, 
gravel heaps.
‘The Crossing Social Club’.


Rising towards Nottingham, 
taking the gradient, 
the train growling.


The last fields before the city, 
water shallow, in patches,
revealing ridge and furrow, 
ribbons of forgotten paths.


The guard announces, 
‘Nottingham, this is Nottingham.’
The train slows, glides in
past old warehouses,
and, ever so 
gently, 
squeals 
to a 
stop.