A Train Across The Border Poem by Dante Rose

Raindrops roll like ruthless streams burning with regret
As the highland warrior gazes out into his cigarette
Above the ground of forefathers longing to halt the weary flow
A voice cries out with a scorching tongue from the gravel down below

Another world, the furnace shouts, efficiently bemused
While childhood memories seep away, unwanted and unused
Half a morning he'd been travelling and half he had to go
Beyond the blue, mystic border to the land of frost and snow

Robert the Bruce lies back with his spider, scratching his newly scorched feet
While his cousin the faded oak tree lines the traveller’s seat
Above the rattling scream of the iron warhorse’s song
In a world of pity and of cold in which he just does not belong

For he was travelling along the desolate silver track
His sword is long-since sheathed like the arrows on his back
With his blood-soaked field now out of mind and out of place
He sits like a beaten infidel, barely stomaching the rat-race
Travelling back to where the ghosts of his past spit on diplomas, deals and lies
On a train across the border, to where the dead will never die