The Penultimate Journey
The last night train is a silver arrow
on the bridge, flickering in the lights
of the city then disappearing
into the suburbs, the countryside,
rocking and rattling up the mountains
and eventually spearing the dry freedom of the west.
On my balcony, under the stars
which are more populace tonight than ever,
I wonder, I dream of sitting
in the thick leather seats
and dozing as the rocking settles me.
Parramatta would disappear,
perhaps forever.
The suburbs would flash by
and the bush of the mountains
embrace me in my bullet
to the freedom buried
in the warmth of the night.
Eventually we’d descend,
clattering on the tracks,
and scream out into the opening world
of the west, into the freedom
that exists in a small village,
the destination of my penultimate journey.
Peter Cartwright
December 2017
