The lights don't work in carriage E.

The Train Manager, a caring sort of girl,

explains that really we should be evacuated

but the train is crowded

and, well, we are all grown ups aren't we?

So every time the train goes through a tunnel

she stands, torch in hand,

and shines it up onto the roof.

We all feel very special in coach E.

I look through the window where

bedraggled cormorants take on a crucifixion pose.

"It always was a troubled village".

I hear a woman say.

Egrets, fragile as bone china

stand poised in silver shallows.

The ribs of my favorite wreck

worn black and wet

exposed at falling tide like

the Boxing Day turkey.

Vacant masts sharp as fish bones,

a soft-blurred horizon alternating

with the shock of sudden tunnels.

Dawlish Warren and I can't help thinking

of the woman killed running across the track

to save her dog. Red Rock Cafe closed,

men in yellow jackets repair the coastal path.

Roe deer in Powderham Castle grounds court and spark

in misty bracken. Two swans on the estuary.

The man opposite me does deals on his mobile.

I catch his tension, it's touch and go.

And the ceiling in the toilet lets in rain.

Just another London journey

on another Paddington bound train.