Waiting for the Horses

For Keith Hanley

So wistful is the recognition now

of all the places that I hardly noted:

places I know that I saw once or twice,

their occasions unrecallable,

like a green caravan in a field-corner.

This year snow lays on the hills already

in mid-November by the northern Lakes

as the train gathers speed up the gradient.

By a level-crossing gate a boy stands,

holding a horse’s tackling on his shoulder.

What distant sound does he hear along the tracks?

I don’t think I will go by train again.

Bernard O’Donoghue