Over The Points Poem by Jean Bernard Parr

I'm in no man's land between
white toothed winter, and this
pale dissembling summer
where the seasons horse blinker
the particulars, no time to feel
for newborn leaves who want to
jostle and play, be gay
no time at the train window of
life, fast harvester of all the
gap between woods and hills, where
you crash land your 747, slowed down
cottages, farms neat as dice
the sprawled effort of land toil
in this rural heaven, the tractor
left outside to rust, sump without oil
speeding speeding, needing needing
opposite, a woman reading
look
comfortable cats in barns, men down
the pub, trading yarns, its only
foreigners who doubt, who dont know
over the points we rattle
sudden as death
look, a wedding, and theres some
overheated bedding, make more people
to drive more cars, whatever you do
don't look up at the stars.