I am on the upper bunk, watching the sunrise over Tuscany
You are sleeping below, swaying with the train
It is cutting through wheat-fields, the farmers already working
We are hurtling towards Rome.
“You are early risers, O Farmers,” I say
They are too far away to hear.
I do love train travel, though can rarely sleep on a sleeper
finding them too noisy and too hot
less Orient more Midnight Express
You do like to look out of the window, not much minding
that all the lights in the coach have failed
due to some problem with the battery
She does sound frazzled, our stewardess
Trying to make her way down the tunnel-black corridors
While people complain voluably
We do feel some relief emerging into fields of sunflowers
“Do you, O sunflowers, converse much with the Romans?” I ask.
“They do still speak Latin, I hope?
I wouldn’t like to think my schooling
They decline to answer.