On the Fast Train from Cambridge to London

Along the familiar stave of black wires, black birds,
It happens only once as the train passes through
That small slip of light on the countryside

And the sun, through an uncut lens, flashes out at
The dust on the window, worn seats, sudden faces
Exposed in glass, on the line to London.

Even if your eyes were closed, even if you stayed
With your head resting on my shoulder, half asleep
And half-obscured by brown hair falling down,

You could feel it too, the sunlight through your eyelids,
The bright rubescence startling between the dark reel
Of telegraph poles and woodland stuttering.

This is more than enough. The pale mask on the fields,
The white-edged trees, the glinting square roofs radiant
As the sky, all passing, all recurring.
...