Train Journey

On the 11.37 with Sylvia Plath

On the 11.37 with Sylvia Plath

The man shouting at his phone
On the 11.37 to Marylebone,
These are not my words.

My words – Notes from Ariel – drown
In his life of importance and
Deadlines set to fail him.

Unaware, Sylvia sings her Morning Song,
Its rhythm missing my heart,
Deflected in monotone drum beats.

Princes Risborough brings silence.
A chance to ride and breathe the countryside,
Contemplating “Poppies in July”.

These are my words.

© Davy D 2017