In passing, of course, these details:
roof shapes, patterns of tiles,
a geometry softened by snow
whose last fists hang onto branches
like the buds of flowers
while, on sheening, untarmacked lanes,
the ice compacts in grey layers.
Where life goes on, it’s a man
shovelling clinker from a stove
or these steamy professions
of plans inside a cold carriage –
or maybe professions of love
we’ve heard but not yet recognised –as the train creaks, shrieks and starts to move.