In daytime, a train journey is anchored by the scenery,
Visible river and industrial estate.
You might see an ornate narrowboat edging forward
Or a small red car manoeuvring into a tight space;
At least if some station names flash by in a blur
There were letters, they exist
The details work hard
Holding you back from flying off into
The unknown or Iceland. You are where what you see.
And the regular commute, even if sliding
Into the night, is clamped dead straight by habit,
The endorsed rule of office or home
But enter into an unfamiliar train at night,
Passengers silent or shouting, not even dark showing outside
But a mirror image of the train’s interior
Patterned seats, bland tables, preoccupied passengers
Trapped by their smartphones into writhing worlds,
But no sign of yourself, and you wonder
Where you are going , if anywhere, in what world if any.
No wonder the retreat into laptop homelands.
So different is the plane, where there are only two options,
Lesvos or death, the first being much more likely.