Grantham

Carried along
smoother than water
swifter than wind,
I watch a mild, anonymous country
breathing in and out
like some large, amicable sleeping beast
in coat of Lincoln green

Small roads lift without effort
over modest hills.
Bare copses wheel
in nonchalant manoeuvres.
Here and there a farm
dodges behind screens
of sycamores

Suddenly a spire
I used to know swings by:
sister to Salisbury
for grace and height,
a host of lesser structures
crouching in homage.
I glimpse the Sunday walk–sized hill,
and two–tiered, civic clock tower
like a wedding cake.

Too fast to read the name
the station passes.
This place where once for me
all journeys ended and began
is Inter–City now.