For Keith Hanley
So wistful is the recognition now
of all the places that I hardly noted:
places I know that I saw once or twice,
their occasions unrecallable,
like a green caravan in a field-corner.
This year snow lays on the hills already
in mid-November by the northern Lakes
as the train gathers speed up the gradient.
By a level-crossing gate a boy stands,
holding a horse’s tackling on his shoulder.
What distant sound does he hear along the tracks?
I don’t think I will go by train again.
Bernard O’Donoghue
