This is a “found poem”, if such a thing exists. It is derived from sketchbook working notes made on September 12, 2020, as I reflected and recorded the filmed material (both video and sound) that I have compiled for a work in progress, also to be called “Different Tracks”. I have re-ordered and recomposed the fragments, much as I have done with the original material, and from this I reach something that might be considered a poem.
The images and screengrabs come from my original material.
“Different Tracks”
Oxford to Didcot: a train in urgent flight southwards.
The engine smooths out a hurrying time. Looking down
towards the trackbed, colours, forms and structures become a blur.
Some seem to hang in the vision, in swooping flight.
But most are lost.
On foot, I walk along abandoned sidings: there was once a factory in Amlwch.
There are no trains now. The rails are broken. And rusted.
There is a profusion of nature and decay.
Between the twin tracks, buddleia abound.
The wind grabs at me.
Near Didcot, slower now, the blur coalesces and
breaks down, an infinite series of momentary landscapes.
Nothing changes and everything changes.
Didcot, aboard a departing steam train:
a genial amble of sound and motion.
Track ballast falls behind contentedly.
The running board comes with me on this tiny voyage.
Gentler music. Accelerando and rallentando.
Ugly locomotive in a siding. Its diesel engine ticks as it cools:
a clock marking out the seconds of its stopping;
a railway platform clock awaiting an arrival of another train.
Nothing without time.
A train passing at speed.
In the midst of silence, its coming and going, like a long, sung note.
Crescendo and decrescendo.
Respectful silence of the concert hall, before and after, .
The remembering of old steam trains.
Percussive beats and long breaths of steam.
Songs from the past, not quite yet forgotten.
I walk along old lines. Wind and walking in duet.
Sleepers pass by underfoot, measuring my pace.
Time to think and absorb.
The interjections of others, on their own journeys.
Behind the silence roars the passing world.
Yet around the line, voices remain to be heard:
our voices; and of wheels, engines, brakes and birds.
An enduring stopping and starting.
Didcot to Oxford. Huge northbound skies glowering
over dashing woodlands.
We are back to the speed of blurred moments barely seen.
There must be a return journey.
