If someone tells me one more secret
I will sink. They are all bad.
The one he kissed. The one he lost. The accusations.
The train flies through the unlit stations.
Were we meant to travel or
Become a tree, heavy with fruit,
Not shrivelled truth, to whisper night
Companionably, with moon-breathed leaf
Beside the platform, drip with light?
If you've any comments on this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be pleased to hear from you.