Cradled through England between flooded fields
Rocking, rocking the rails, my head-phones on
The black box of my Walkman on the table
Hot tea trembles in its plastic cup
I'm thinking of you waking in our bed
Thinking of me on the train. Too soon to phone
The radio speaks in the suburbs, in commuter towns
In cars unloading children at school gates
The bed and the train are both comforting, safe environments. Clarke’s mind draws parallels between them.
On The Train