Gone From There

A poem I wrote some time ago, that I've looked out in response for a request for original writings on a WWII theme:

It was not a journey undertaken in comfort.  The grey and ancient train

was frequently halted, sometimes standing for hours

in the cold of some remote siding, never picking up speed

even when the line was clear.  There were no occasions

for conversation between passengers;  no eyes would meet,

and no faces would be remembered.

Though the papers, of course, were all correct.

Beyond the grimy windows the air was full of snow,

a white carpet on each station platform, lit by the swinging lamps;

here a sudden clanging bell,

there, briefly glimpsed, a bored boy soldier toying with his gun.

At this stage one did not dare consider the border

and the destination beyond.  It was still too soon

for the risk of believing.

One might pray for people and places left behind

while, as the wheels sang against the dark rails, it was

enough to be moving south;  enough to be gone from there.