FrasMac

The train home

The train home

Not my shadows, not my grey

not my graffiti, not my spray

not my concrete, not my crowds

not my rain and not my clouds

Not my buildings, not my streets

not my washing, not my sheets

not my dogs and not my cats

not my crows and not my bats

Not my bridges, not my spars

not my theatres, not my bars

not my shops and not my lights

not my place to spend the night.

Here is where the light turns green

here the ever changing scene

here the meadows, here the fields

here the stress begins to yield

Here the rivers, here the trees

here the birds sing just to please

here the lovers walk the lanes

here the simple life is plain

Here my friendships, here my vows

here my sheep and here my cows

here my castle scrapes the sky

here my life stops rushing by.

Here my sunset, hear my sighs:

here are my boundaries, here is my prize.

©Fraser McDougall 24/7/26