Pastoral

Branch line, Swansea to Haverfordwest
 
The train, three carriages, clicking quickly on
as an April twilight is about descending,
does not so much splinter Carmarthenshire
as lay out its flanks of pastureland and sea.
The flurry of girls who gobble Alco-pops,
hustle youth and intemperance,
are due to descend to Carmarthen homes,
in the Towy Valley’s meadowed pastoral.

The Polish girl is of a different ilk.
The text-book she is annotating lends aloofness,
but there’s a scratch of worry about her destination.
The conductor clatters through and she is wondering
about Clunderwen. Due there maybe ten to ten.

The man across the aisle, van-driver, football coach,
notices then how the girl’s myopic puzzlement
is peering at the electronic ticker-tape,
wondering about the looming “Caerfyrddin”.
Coach acts. No, no. No worries. That is just
Carmarthen town in Welsh. Clunderwen nestles
further into countryside, there’s twenty miles to go.
He’ll watch the stops, he’ll let her know.

And he is straightway melted by her smile.
They talk of Welsh and Polish, consonants,
place names and villages and visitors.
When she leaves, he offers to hump her heavy case,
but no, she smiles, it’s fine. Flings bag to shoulder,
strides to the door. Clunderwen, ten to ten.
 
Robert Nisbet

If you have any comments on this poem, Robert Nisbet would be pleased to hear from you.