Julie McElhone #9 Look, Write, Look, Write.

The train at 9am. Late. Slow start.

Moving through the rain, I see

piles of wagon wheels, 

huge cable wheels, 

then dark, 

close to a wall, 

reflections in the glass, 

I see myself back.

Black trunks, new growth, 

rock cutting, a shorter dark, a parade of bush,

a bush parade, racing past, faster closer, stable farther, 

moan of the wheels on metal, rocking, tilting, jolting, it’s work 

to keep my head straight.

Droplets cling to the window, hold fast, no grip and slip across the glass: 

look write look write: 

muddied vehicle tracks, duos, a glare, don’t eyeball the sun, a mound of gravel, monument to systems, to roads.

Cross under highway, big blue truck, 

a momentary meeting of lines—

Clarity in a patch of grass, dried and wetted.

Soon a gathering of cars, a car meeting, 

a committee of cars outside a daycare centre, 

growing people.

A line of river, crossing over,

us crew cross it together, we are lumped, 

the category of those who sit on this train at this time going this way;

this category, in the rain. 

Someone talking across the aisle. Sensory invasion! I’m hijacked:

‘All shoes are flat anyway…I know…murmur…she has a huge arch, massive arch…mumble…wonderful’. ‘I really like ‘gasoline’. ‘I’m glad it’s the song you like…apparently that’s genetic too. The smell of petrol. Hate the smell of petrol…I mean, I can understand…there’s really no way…that’s one of the first things…’ 

Where did I go? Look, write:

A hamlet of large sheds, a trampoline, a line full of washing, rain.

Electricity poles, sentinels, soldiers.

A road wrapping around a hill, a bright metallic box. Lone.

Passing train carrying big, round tanks, silver blurry missiles, houses perched on the top of ravines, the number 2, a green fence, a blue seat, an orange sign, an unlit lamp, 2 more blue benches, stairs, bridge, whizzing shapes, tap on-tap off blue, a rusted chain, a pipe going nowhere, coming out of the ground chucking a u-turn and being a question mark, spindly trees growing from rock, an old bus parked near a house, a red signal light, a little ladder behind, smoke from a chimney, a big grey mess of buildings, concrete towers, stocky, cocky, cars, tankers, a tower guarding huddled trees, a huddle of bushes, and trees, a clearing, another huddle, a dead grey tree, fences, metal wire and wooden posts, COWS, heads down, one wooden cable spool, a glistening dam, a stronger sun, same one, a dam with green daubs in the middle, the ground carpeted green, scribbles, now scrub, a pile of dead branches, arranged, horses with blankets, cows with their heads down, balls of bushes, shooting through towns, a pile of dark grey gravel, ‘I’m NOT a ranga!!’, racing trucks appear on the highway below us, we win. 

This category of us on the train, cows with their heads down, rocks wrapped in wire.

Cows with their heads down, a composition of roads composed by committee, racing through stations, a little red car negotiating a bend, a neat green shed, horses corralled, a caravan named puma with a painting of same, a bridge over dry ground, CAMELS!!, a derelict building, one bird on the wing, ring, ‘hellooo?…half way between…yeah…aah…five minutes to eleven…yeah, o really??! What? Proper? O really, I wonder why he did that…and I’ve had a couple of little shots at him…’ 

The train at nine forty-nine.