As the Northern train clacks across its slats,
A twisting nips at my inside sense.
I watch the scarlet slits of sun flashing
At the heralds of spring, the daffodils,
Who never tire of travellers.
To deny my mind’s gloom,
I try to catch the yellow gashes in the ditches,
And I think of the warm bloom of primroses in April.

Still my scant nails ply the arm
Supporting the cup until
Two long lines of vermilion glory
Softly bleed into my sleeve.
The smarting tracks Lie,
quietly knotting in ribbons.
I sip the cold coffee and settle into sleep.