In unplaceable country, running up and down the train
to disparate smiles: you’re the heart of the line.
Beneath your feet, the earth revolves
while wheels trundle through distant halts
before bursts of speed to the western sea.
Now on such a small branch-line
by a sunlit estuary and flare off the glass
in the stillness of North Dock, then through the scrub
and dense green of Ammanford, through the rec
for Black Mountain views, some energy spike
became a cyclical decline, inexorable shut-eye,
a prostrate sleep before you alight
somewhere you don’t know, a dark co-ordinate
carried unearthed through renovated time
by a church conversion and Towy Porsche
on the back roads of a Llandeilo night.
Wilderspool Causeway 