Poetry and poësie

The curve

The platform has started
moving back slowly;
no, it is the train
that is moving forward.
The steam locomotive
grunts in deep bass tones,
all the vertebrae of the train
are creaking;
the end of the platform
slips back, faster than I can run;
the heavy steel wheels are starting
to cluck like mechanical geese,
faster and faster.
I look out from the open window;
the brown smell of coal smoke
steams past.

Ahead lies the country,
curving gently towards the sea
where my parents stay.
I know it curves,
I learned about it in school
only last week;
but human beings are too small
to notice the curve.

I close the window,
there is a picture of a Springbok head
whitely  sandblasted in the pane.

I sit down on the stiff green leather seat.
What will I say to these grownup men
traveling with me?
I don’t think I will say
anything about the curve;
they may think it is nonsense;
people talk sensible things,
we live in a flat world.