Tickets Please, Mr Auden
It wasn’t the Savile taint
of the Age of the Train
or the jaw dropping sexism
of travelling like the men do,
but the efficiency of engines
that killed the romance
of rail travel. Its bradycardic
clickety clack and gentle rocking
like a mothers comfort
replaced by an monotone roar
and the tilt and lurch of progress.
I thought of The Night Mail
and how Auden’s celebrated
rhythm would no longer make
sense, and need to be altered.
Thisisthenightmailcrossingtheborderb
r
i
n
gingthechequeandTHEPOSTALORDER
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