Train journeys are fruitful times.

here's one I wrote today for an exercise on the Guardian website set by Matthew Francis. It may appear again later as a revised edition before I send it away, but here it is for now.

The Gifts

Here, for you, a long slow sky at first; a flight
for your eyes into spectacle. Feel it open you up
like a thirst. Bring this awakening to your snow-dead
toes, to the contrast of the smell of burning hair.

Take next the sliding acceptance of horseback
and the horse's own gait into your spine. It is
my gift to you. Use it to fend off the taste
of long-dead clouds in your mouth.

You've shut your eyes by now, I can tell.
Feel the grave-walker bring you back
to life with a finger-tickle up your spine.
I'll count the hairs I've raised there one by one

whilst you escape the panic of a striptease
of flesh torn back to the bone. Stay with me, I still
have a few things left to offer. Ignore the voices
out of reach through the white noise, don't fish it

for the tune you think you know. Let the sherbert
betray its own pastel colour and shiver your head
out of death. There, you can speak now. We're all so pleased
to see you, like a happiness sky. There's still a smell

of pine-damp picnics left for when you're ready:
do enjoy at your leisure. Eat of nature until
you're full; don't stop until your pink cheeks
match the colour of a shepherd's delight.