Poem — Jan Hutchison

Waving from the Train

At first you’re afraid
to board this train.
You wake to black percussion
of wheels crossing

a river with no name.
But tracks are warming
in the sun, foxgloves stride
along the bank and memory sleeps

on a far station roof.
No need to hesitate. Your
heart is a locomotive and
enters the long spiny coast

where rocks are sharpened blue
with mussel shells and up some
hills, the purse of the gorge
is glinting clay. You want

to touch the world with your hand
then let it go.
Open the window! Wind
is blowing moments from

your hair and turning your
pockets inside out. And
you have forgotten about
arriving while you travel

looking from the bare plain wagon
of yourself. Here’s water
moving in the elbow of a bay.
You follow its light.


Jan Hutchison

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