The Heart of Things (I) Journey Poem by Eva Bourke

At the station, newspapers, hot
coffees, the metallic smell of departure, the larks
strike their notes, glitzy
overtones from on high after night rain.
The train carries us away free
of hesitation or doubt on its linear tracks.
Fleecy clouds move with us, fast
fleeting farewells.
Approaching the heart of things equals becoming
the heart of things, I read green
hierograms of birches, leaf music,
shiver light, breathing.
On each page I turn, small shadows rush
across the script, glass-winged
as dragonflies, unburdened of all else.
The boy next to us, seventeen maybe eighteen,
is asleep, his head on his folded arms,
on the table beside him his cap, phone,
glasses, wallet, all given over
to happenstance, the touch
of sun light on his unburdened eyelids.