Poems Composed on Trains

While I have been sitting here on the train, I come up with a poem, which is pretty much there (I might  need to tweak it a bit). But it has given me the idea to try and compose a poem during each of our train journeys. So here is the first:

Northbound

Sunday leans on London’s hush,
and King’s Cross hums in tempered light,
a vaulted hall of glass and steel
where pigeons loop in cooing flight.

The train awaits—no steam or soot,
no furnace glare or stoker’s grime,
but still it holds a kindred pulse,
a sleek inheritance of time.

We slip the city’s tangled threads,
past arches, cranes, canals, and skies,
then dart through tunnels, deep and fast,
like thoughts before they crystallise.

No smell of coal, no iron shriek,
yet something old stirs in the frame—
a whisper from the Flying Scots,
the ghost of steam beneath the name.

Through Hertfordshire and field-bound towns,
by rivers bent like silver wire,
we chase the North, a gliding line
on wheels that sing with latent fire.

York passes like a turning page,
Durham's spires drift into view,
and Newcastle, all lit in steel,
salutes us with its bridges’ blue.

Then, borderlands—the land grows wide,
with sheep and gorse and wind that moans,
and Scotland draws us, proud and dark,
with hills like kings on buried thrones.

At last, the Forth, and Edinburgh—
her castle carved in dusk and stone.
The train exhales; the journey done,
but wonder lingers, all our own.

For though no furnace fed the run,
no cinders flew, no gauges steamed,
the rail still holds its ancient thrill—
as swift, as strange, as once we dreamed.

East Neuk and Back

OK, this next one wasnt composed on a train, as it is about out trip to Crail:

We rented a car and slipped the grid,
Left Edinburgh just as the morning did,
With Arthur’s Seat a soft farewell,
And city sounds behind us fell.

The road unwound by silvery shores,
Where gulls held council, bold in scores,
Then on to Crail, where rooftops lean
Like dozing cats in Fife’s salt sheen.

We chatted, hugged, and took our tea,
With cousins blethering merrily—
A garden glimpse, a tale retold,
A sunset dipped in marigold.

At St Andrews, the night was kind—
The sea sighed close, the stars aligned.
The ruins spoke in moonlit hush
Of ancient scholars, wind, and crush.

Next day we wound through hill and glen,
To Wallace’ tower high o’er men.
We climbed its stairs in gasping cheer—
And saw half Scotland far and clear.

Then back at last to city sprawl,
With memories fresh and bootprints small.
The car will get ye whaur ye’re gaun—
But trains just hae a sweeter sang.

North to Inverness

We pull from Edinburgh’s storied stone,
past chimney pots and Princes Street,
and head into the land beyond—
where sky and heather finally meet.

The Forth Bridge bows a parting grace,
its girders red with century’s pride.
Then up we climb through hills that hush,
a train with wonder for a guide.

The lowlands fade in softened green,
then moors unfold in richer hues:
bracken brown and heather bruised,
with skies that stretch in open blues.

Lochs appear like whispered spells—
still as thought, and twice as deep.
They hold the hills like secret truths,
and cradle deer that shyly keep.

Red stags stand like kings in frame,
with crowns of antler, proud and still.
Highland cattle watch us pass,
with fringes full of wind and will.

No fences here, no edges drawn—
just distance, moss, and sudden streams.
Each mile we take feels further off,
each cloud a carrier of dreams.

We race through drumlins, glens, and burns,
past signs in Gaelic, sparse and spare.
A castle crumbles by the track
and doesn't mind, it's always there.

Then Inverness, the silver town,
where river meets the mountain’s hem.
The train slows down, but not my pulse—
my heart is somewhere in the glen.

I step into the northern air,
the scent of pine, the taste of mist.
A land like this holds fast and deep—
you come just once, and can’t resist.

Loch Ness Temptation

And another non-train poem but fits in with our journey.

We left Inverness in afternoon light,
Where the River Ness rolls cool and bright,
And headed south where stories stir—
Through wooded turns and silver blur.

The loch stretched long, both dark and wide,
With hush and glint on every side.
The water held a quiet breath,
Half dream, half tale, half whispered death.

We paused where Urquhart’s ruins rest,
A broken crown on Scotland’s chest.
Its shattered walls still face the shore—
They’ve seen it all, and maybe more.

The boat slid out with steady grace,
The sky leaned close, the wind changed face.
We watched the waves, as still as glass—
But Nessie didnae rise nor pass.

St Columba saw her, bold and near—
We saw just ripples, and a deer.
Yet still we smiled, content to roam—
With myths to tell when we got home.

Then back through hills in fading day,
Where loch and sky both slip away.
The myths stayed deep, the road was kind—
But Ness had left her mark behind.

South from Inverness

Inverness lets go with grace—
the river slow, the morning clear.
Its streets still whisper Highland things,
a softer step, a kinder year.

It’s not a city made for haste,
but for stillness, speech, and sky,
a place to watch the heron land
and let your list of “musts” run dry.

But we are southbound now, alight,
the train a flick of thought and steel—
it doesn’t pause for longing looks,
just hums with purpose, sleek and real.

The moors still call in silent tones,
the lochs shine sly between the trees,
and deer glance up like old friends met
by chance, then lost again with ease.

We pass through space that won’t be rushed—
the birchwoods dapple, rivers bend—
but still the train leans into time,
impatient for the southern end.

Then hills grow rounder, farms return,
the wildness traded, bit by bit.
You feel the old lines drawing close—
stone walls, neat fields, the human writ.

And there is Perth: composed and proud,
a crossroads town with roots grown deep.
Where Inverness is born of mist,
this place is built to count and keep.

But both, in truth, are worth the ride—
one opens you, one folds you in.
And on this track between the two,
you lose, and find yourself again.

Going Home

Perth is stretching, half awake,
the station smells of rain and rolls.
I find my seat, a window view,
and settle in with travel goals.

A flask of tea, a novel thick,
a bag of crisps that taste of sea—
and off we glide through sleepy streets,
past gardens blinking quietly.

The trees are dressed in Saturday—
not quite formal, not too wild.
The clouds discuss their weekend plans,
a weathery and wayward child.

We swoop through fields and tidy farms,
by cows arranged in perfect rows,
then Edinburgh with its grand regards—
a city balancing on prose.

More people board with bags and buns,
a baby wails with righteous might;
someone's scrolling holiday homes,
someone else’s hair is… quite a sight.

Then off again through Borders green,
the lammergeier of trains in flight—
we do not rush, we gallivant,
a southbound tale in stripes of light.

Berwick shows us sea and sky,
a ruin winks as if to say,
“Your city waits, but take your time—
the world is best in slight delay.”

In England now, the accents shift,
the snacks grow weird, the fields more smug.
I doze and dream of Hampshire lanes,
of garden paths and boots to tug.

Past Peterborough, things get fast,
like plot twists in a paperback.
A pigeon waves from overhead—
and that’s the sign: we’re nearly back.

Then London looms in concrete grace,
and King’s Cross yawns its giant smile.
I step into the Saturday,
still wrapped in miles, still gone a while.

And as we melt into the crowd,
our boots recall their proper loam—
the scent of earth, the gate’s soft click—
We're on our way. we're going home.

Next Time

We saw a lot, but left some be—
Some names still whisper, “Come see me.”
The Birnam Oak we passed on by,
Its branches reaching to the sky.

And Dunsinane, that haunted hill,
Where Macbeth’s name is spoken still.
We meant to go, we truly did—
But time ran out, the path lay hid.

And Glasgow, bold, with bustle bright—
She’ll get her verse another night.
And Ayr, where Rabbie’s memory sings—
We’ll save for softer wanderings.

We missed a few—but that’s okay.
There’s always time, another day.
So pack the boots, the map, the rhyme—
The rest will wait… until next time.