The resounding, singing song of the rail

rises fast out of the east; sharply chiselled out of silence,

growing into its maximum with the velocity of an explosion,

before it dies down in a westerly direction

through a series of tight-knitted coughs,

the steely song withdrawing

into the soughing of birches and aspens,

leaving but a recollection of a close call

and a vibrating moment

The slim, short train from Haparanda to Boden/Luleå

swings by my bed - The Great Ship of Dreams -

approximately 200 meters / 600 feet south of my position

in bed,

upstairs,

with the poems of Rumi at hand,

the house - on its hill of till - considerably higher up than the railway,

To me, on the north side of the house, upstairs,

the train is just a sound

with the duration of a medium kiss,

and would I peek out of a window facing south,

all I'd see of the passage

would be a brief flash of colours

inside the birch- and aspen brush

engulfing the railway embankment like green fire

This rail is part of an unbroken chain of steel

all the way to Mongolia and China

(except for a change of width in Finland)

Right by the farm, the rail curves quite distinctly,

causing the train wheels to emit a series of fast, hard coughs,

if not a rattle by the Little Drummer Boy on his snare drum

in a psychedelic fairytale of doom & rebirth;

a row of male quarterbacks standing pissing

all the way from Big Bang Burger

to the Restaurant at the End of the World

I've wanted to record that beat for years,

but each time I've had the incentive,

I've missed the train...

I recall Anna's hesitance when we'd first met,

many years ago,

as I left her up in the warmth of the house

to spend some late night hours in the winter cold,

alone by the railway with my Zoom recorder,

waiting for a train that never came,

to record its clattering passage

through the curve

This train, with its maybe four cars,

reminds me (except for its speed) of a larva,

of which you see quite a few

here out in the countryside, this time of year