Tarot

The train is riding, rocking gently
While it takes me to Bordeaux.
Outside, the grasses slowly grow
Beneath the mute age of each bent tree.
The swelter’s melting into glue
The tyres, and the decorations
Of graffiti, baked in stations,
Crack and fall; my writing too.
I’m finding there’s so many things
Which do not need my songs to grow,
The plants, the grass do not bite strings
Of drama. Answering their show,
I shed all cards of fate and kings.
So this is peace. I did not know.