Rolling Past Poem by Graham Stone

Wheels roll over rust-run steel,
As they slip along the beaten tracks.

Reflections fly past, a blur,
Behind my doppelganger’s vacant face.

Along a river we ride,
Across the damp and splintered sleepers
Where the trees dip their leaves
From crooked creepers
To kiss the water,
And inhabit,
I should imagine,
All manner of living creatures.

Sprawled between us lies a gravelled path,
Where folk will often walk, and fish, and chat,
Besides the splashing stream,
As they crack the gravel under foot.
And give chase to idle dreams.

But where am I, for I cannot hear,
Where am I, as I do not feel?

I am shut in merry commuting hell
With my head pressed against the glass
I watch well this swell of natural grace,
As nature mocks me from afar.

It knows I’m just another passing face,
Going home to another time,
Another place.

I am just another vacant space.