THE LAST TRAIN

Let them have been
of the commonest,

sprigs of heather,
ragwort, whins,

something of
every hole in the hedge,

the flowers the last train in
bore above her wiper,

Bundoran Junction
settling for silence,

no longer what it was,
Leitrim unscrolling,

one final time,
field by rushy field,

on the windscreen.