The View from the Train
Where is the poetry
in mountains of scrap?
Generations of junk
thrown down the bank
behind rows of crumbling houses,
A line of white laundry
strung out to a dying tree?
Cities turn their backsides
to the tracks,
Burnt-out factories and
warehouses, a gas pipeline
terminal, with its flare torch,
like a beacon of hope.
Yet there is grace and
beauty, if you look
carefully--ironwork
arched Art Deco-style
over the tracks, an
ancient, abandoned
depot like a tiny
pagoda, and trees
Trees grow up
through mountains
of garbage and
hopelessness, as
if to say, here
amid death,
there is life.
Beautiful!
ReplyDelete