By Hugh McMillan
Railway embankments
are fantastic things,
scooped like wings against
the sky which today is a cold blue.
Willowherb, going grey as
beards, and stiff stained grass
tinted black- green bend
north with the wind,
catch paper bags, shreds
of clear plastic, spread
them streaming like flags
or bunting. Here
is our gorgeous detritus,
our wounded flowers,
blown here from exotic dustbins
or verges. I imagine them
rumbling in a strange tongue.
What they would tell me now
if the doors were not
centrally locked,
if they were open as of old,
when people looking
for answers reached
out into the void.
This is not a sad poem.
It is a celebration
of the beautiful things
we have, lose sight of.
