Things Poetic

 Florence Calls Train taking the weight across the space between here and Florence,  clickers clack, would have been the sound once, now its a swish, as the speed drags the excited faces from the built up city, across the green rolling hills (well, brown currently) through the hole in the earth pointed towards Paris sunlight flashes into the eyes, and the speed increases towards, once stopping, a quick rush to the eastern side and the next tav journey starts, via Germany to Florence art, culture food, wine autumn joy alone, and not lonely

 Friday Crushed against the smeared window, in the wobbling door of the train  seemingly refusing to keep a constant direction or speed, momentum interrupted or is it stationery interrupted by jerky movements, an elderly man fighting trembling and shaking limbs bodies follow the movement, in echo out of concert smell of skunk wafts around from the youth, slouching as she thumbs her way around an ugly brick of a phone, diamante designs reflecting her skin red and swollen eruptions marking the unhealthy glistening pink 'we apologise...' goes the tannoy 'for the delay. this was (this timothy have an excuse) caused by...' scrolls through the choice of reasons... 'someone being hit by a train in the Leyton area....' silence screams in my head