Passing Manor Park.
Sounds of rail rhythms rock us
along the backs of houses.
A red rose blooms,
two sunflowers hang heads
over wilderness and tipped settees,
before Manor Park a faded orange rug
carpets a fence.
Stratford flashes past,
with new high rise homes, cranes
and bright clad men shifting stones.
London’s primrose brick, graffiti walls
and the Gherkin rockets
to an uncertain sky.
Spiked buddleia-shoots point up
this Norfolk trips finale.
Thick along the track,
their purple finger-flowers
beckon Liverpool Street.
We shift, rise,
more wingless bugs than butterflies,
lift baggage, set our inner compass
in the stooped hush.
Neat and tucked, prepare to scatter.
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