Night-Mail

The train station - 

dank;
gutters dripping,

on Eden-scented moss.
Our train rolls off

its buttercup-yellow windows,
lingering on the black-mushed, hedgerow

curving further and further,
‘til black. 

Then suddenly, 
the hush: 

the sighing trees,
leasing light too, but

from the platinum moon.
They speak

in the soft, velvet lisp of night.
Leaving me,

and you - 
a pair of algaed stones – 

breaking the soft, silver-lit waves
of each other's cosmic moans.