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Back-to-backs, some of the last, and always just below the view   a sunken tide of regular sound west to the river, south to elsewhere,   and sometimes we travel together as I slink into their sleep whilst I sleep,   settle beside a mother with a child coiled in her lap, click-clacking   into darkness, coming heavy, pushing at the edges of the carriage   And sometimes the track returns us on the late train to the end of my bed   luggage in one hand, my jumper in another until they fling themselves   out of the open window,   flit though the ivy, the nettles and wire to meet the fast train home,   waking in a stuffy carriage, an image of my room in their eye,   the tone of the city in their ear, in the thrust of the train’s rush   towards the sea and out of here…