Thursday, February 25, 2010

On the Train to Mayfield

[ Photograph by Nicholas King ]

It was on the train to Mayfield
that celebrated Birthdays,
conductors standing straight and tall,
and all the the rolling earth.
There we stood and heard the choir
and saw the people dancing.
I said, let's take the next stop.
You nodded absently.

So we got off in Hiding.
Walked the streets together.
A light rain was falling.
And the prophets on the street corners
were calling out your name.

Well, the house was cold and dark but open,
with crosses made of birch and twine,
hanging above our bed
with the covers kicked away,
revealing you to me
and now my thoughts are drifting,
remembering a memory
and what you asked of me:

Have you made up your mind?
I've already decided.
I'm staying here in Hiding
until I can really get away.
And I can't hear you, Mary Ann.

And I am dreaming, Mary Ann.

The broken shutter's swinging
woke me up the next morning.
Then I heard you singing
from underneath your pillow.
Outside the sun was shining
with such intensity
that we took our time awakening
to say our good-byes.

And at the Station we stood apart,
afraid of retribution.
Here's the Lie and here's the Sign
that this will last forever.
And I watched you from the window.

I'm going on to Mayfield, Mary Ann.

I am leaving, Mary Ann.