Night Train to Prachuap Khiri Khan

Again again, again again,

hard wood for a hard class,

every window every door open,

dusty dreams breeze through


again again, again again,

the woman opposite stands

grim whilst her daughter

sleeps on the hard wood,


again again, again again,

gone are the rice fields to

the dark, gone the sun-bleached

stork to the crickets’ call,


again again, again again,

hawkers call their wares,

small money between fingers,

the crowded carriage snoozes,


again the mosquitoes,

again the turn, the stretch,

again the hard wood,

again the mother’s grimace,


and now the wheels screech,

the train stops, the night

comes loud and warm against us,

and now the wheels groan and turn,


the crowded carriage lurches,

tracks beat restless beneath us;

again again, again again,

again again, again again.



©James Bruce May, 2014

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