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Railway Bridge Nocturne
                                                    Oxford

 
 
As Andy and I walked through Jericho
a while after the sun set, on our road
from home toward Port Meadow, we observed
the terraced houses that were poor and now
 
are for the wealthy. And we came in sight –
upon the railway bridge – of where the rails
sweep you into the station and your wheels
cease churning for an instant. It was lit
 
as if for Christmas, red and white. A train
loomed idly in the shadow at the bend.
There were no other travelers to stand
 on that dark bridge with us, where a young man
 
or older soul might gaze and contemplate.
And at Port Meadow, riven by the Thames,
a cyclist told us where we were. It seems
to me this was a sign. Then we moved out
 
by pub and shop front homeward. As we came
to Andy’s place, past stone façades, we met
with Coulee climbing out into the street
from her bright yellow car with its green trim.

John Isbell


 

If you have any thoughts about this poem, John Isbell would be pleased to hear them

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