Joseph Anton





It was always a comfort
When the mournful train horn
Gave way to the thunder of wheels

The nightly roar from the hollow
Birch trees craning in behind the house
To watch the lighted windows pass by

The dull vibration, felt in the gut
Rising to a rumble to rattle the bedposts
The cry of steel on steel at the curve

Sometimes, a snap-flash of electricity
Arcing blindly from the wires
Earthing itself in the black soil

I could sleep through them all
Though I preferred to be awake
To share their loud secret






Joseph Anton is an insomniac paralegal who grew up in an obscure corner of England and now lives in London. He has been writing as a hobby for years.

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