On the Line

It’s cows that block our journey,
leave us wrapped in a tunnel of trees,learning –
because we have no choice – to be stopped,
somewhere near Crewkerne,
to look at leaves unblurred by speed,
speak to our neighbours, stretch and peer –

although we can’t see them yet, these
black and white Friesians that have parked
their ample rumps across the straight line
on our maps, penned us in a spot where even
satellites’ signals are overshadowed
and we are cut out from our lives,

suspended in our stopped pod,
our watches and timetables worthless –
and slowly the counterpoint of grumble and enquiry,
half-audible tannoy, scrabble and scrape of bags,
climbs its gradient of crescendo before settling
to a canon of resigned conversation

till the trolley rattles through, dispensing
its gospel that all will be well
for we have tea.