Suspense

The thrill of holiday suspends,
at seven age, when trundling train
tracks flimsy girders, river bridge,
at slower speed, for driver knows
his belching monster grinding line
may crack the rails, so carriage fall
with luggage, family and me,
deposit in the muddy swirl,
a fortnight, sediment, to crawl.

The others chatter as before,
the clatter tells they know full well
our destiny -- don’t scare the boy.
I, wishing back near home turf hedge,
have little care for seaside sand,
the hut below the fall of slopes,
kiddles, mud inter-tidal boat,
still less for journey platform break
awaiting us at Grandma’s home.

And then I hear we gain some speed,
soon rhythm over sleepers flies
and suddenly my scenes are back.
The river’s gone, the rattles left,
now stony beach, the island mist,
our backs to groynes against the wind,
the Street, the shells, the oyster smells.
The next, the dread of our return,
the chugging through suspended hell.