Old Moby tracks the chase and summons me.
We doubt all this but crowd the pane to spy
That locomoting Whiteness, hear its cry?
With churned Saint Elmo’s fires, sweet Christ, what sound!
The sea like God sounds near, we all are drowned.
As down the nightfall path we raving go,
Old Moby dragging us, one train of woe.
“O, bosh!” says Shaw, and sits, to jolt us back,
“That’s Industry’s Revolt upon the track!”
Much better that than Beast. We sit to eat,
Take tea, a biscuit, bun, or brioche-sweet.
While Kipling curries up remembrance when
His Kim drummed out in dust then back again,
And Kaa was coveted as monarch snake,
And Mowgli howled with wolves that shrilled to shake.
The moon, and pace our train, while our hearts sing:
Aye! Kipling’s our Man Who Would Be King!
Then all too soon, the sun burns up at dawn,
No time to cork our sleep or share a yawn,
It’s over, for now look, around the bend,
Our final stop! the station where books end.
And authors step and leave and all’s good-bye,
I start to think it so and start to cry.
With wicker rustlings now the gods arise,
Their glory burst my chest and cracks my eyes.
The train with muffled heartbeat chuffs to cease,
At Land’s End Lost Time Station, hear the peace,
Where just the other breath our life was words,
Now trees are filled with literature of birds.
Shaw jumps down first, with Chesterton close by