The April Fools’ Train to Manchester

It’s in the pen in the fist
coiled up in a list
or the twist of a fern unfurling.

It’s the sun on the Lune,
an upsidedown moon,
we’ll soon be in Preston (gods willing).

Watch the canal ducks,
drop the bag full of books,
get funny looks off the guard.

With slight passenger freight
speed past Galgate
(with a weight off the mind and the heart).

Follow the silvery line
in the dimming sunshine,
time slow as the trees in the field.

From the fenced hill
see a derelict mill
train still as the points switch back.

With a jolt and a whack
two trains are attached,
between tracks there’s golden gorse.

At Preston it’s busy,
lasses Prosecco fizzy
all dizzy with swearing perfume.

It’s months from Whitsun
but they’re off for some fun,
get spun-out in Manchester.

And so we all flock
to that city of shock
pulling in to the dock of Piccadilly.