Watching the rollers.

I can't recall the people on the train
from Delhi to Jammu.  I don't retain
their style of dress,  their speech or anything.
all I can see is the bob of the telephone lines
where roller birds regard the country lanes.
A beautiful day in 1989,
dreaming dreams of Kashmir in the spring.
One of the happiest days I've ever known,
at ease in an open carriage door.  I've only
packed some touristy clothes.  I can't divine
our fates in the flight of birds,  we are not shown
a hint of what the track ahead will bring.
Watching the rollers erupt from railway signs.
Watching the rollers explode on cobalt wings.

notes