Poetry

Arrival

The city from the train
is cobalt, chrome and cotton wool,
softened to a painting
by hangover and morning mist.

In the sunshine the station
is clean and welcoming as eiderdown,
but my legs move smoothly,
with purpose, and my stomach lurches

as the taxi stutters
into second and away
along the black ribbon of road
to where she's waiting.

Joe Caldwell