Morning Express

Along the wind-swept platform, pinched and white, The travellers stand in pools of wintry light, Offering themselves to morn’s long, slanting arrows. The train’s due; porters trundle laden barrows. The train steams in, volleying resplendent clouds Of sun-blown vapour. Hither and about, Scared people hurry, storming the doors in crowds. The officials seem to waken with a shout, Resolved to hoist and plunder; some to the vans Leap; others rumble the milk in gleaming cans. Boys, indolent-eyed, from baskets leaning back, Question each face; a man with a hammer steals Stooping from coach to coach; with clang and clack Touches and tests, and listens to the wheels. Guard sounds a warning whistle, points to the clock With brandished flag, and on his folded flock Claps the last door: the monster grunts: ‘Enough!’ Tightening his load of links with pant and puff. Under the arch, then forth into blue day, Glide the processional windows on their way, And glimpse the stately folk who sit at ease To view the world like kings taking the seas in prosperous weather: drifting banners tell Their progress to the counties; with them goes The clamour of their journeying; while those Who sped them stand to wave a last farewell.