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This poem is taken from PN Review 30, Volume 9 Number 4, March - April 1983.

Two Poems Ruth Bidgood


I have forgotten stations we stopped at,
how old I was, how long the journey,
who sat opposite, how bags were stowed,
which wind-groomed White Horse
we galloped past, everything
but the rattling race of the train
through landscapes of anticipation,
and, now, one scene-a hillside meadow
below woods, a grey house
at the edge of the trees.

This was the destination
I at once wanted, hung out
into ear-aching wind to hanker after,
was hurried far away from,
forgot for years.

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