It’s
not the journey,
but
the age it takes.
The
miles
are
years spelt out,
but
seem like hours.
Time
to reflect
on
all those trips
you
meant:
each
station a wish;
or
measured out
in
fate:
prophetic
distances,
passing
through
junctions
of doubt.
Journeys
you
planned to make,
but
didn’t;
lost
in transit
or
escape.
And
now:
watching
London fold
like
some great plan
back
into place;
landscapes
that stray
beyond
a traveller’s reach.
Knowing
that this time,
you’ll
make it.
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