is another word for January. Bleak
rain torn train line, departing late
on the 14:03 from London to Edinburgh. Wet socks, forehead attached
to the window.

I’m counting castellated castles
circled by red kites.
Horses stand hock high in mud.

Man across the aisle
says something about WOLVES.
Sheep blow past like ash.

Amazon processing centre on the right.
Trolley full of kitkats. Men love to talk

of predators. TUNNEL. I love
to listen in. Something Saxon England
I can half-hear above the wheels,
imagine their pelts billowing on a washing line
finding our tortoiseshell cat in tufts
across the lawn and I like this WULF

MAN with his lopsided jacket
and his half drunk can
of G&T quivering on the fold-out table
like it knows something about the frequency of the universe.

I half hear the announcer chewing station names. WULF MAN opens
one eye
pricks an ear towards the window
we listen as the trees sellotape themselves
into a semblance of woodland