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From a Weekend First
Paul Farley
One for the money. Arrangements in green and grey
from the window of an empty dining-car.
No takers for this Burgundy today
apart from me. I'll raise a weighted stem
to my homeland scattering1 by, be grateful for
these easy-on-the-eye, Army & Navy
surplus camouflage2（伪装） colours that seem
to mask all trace of life and industry;
a draft for the hidden dead, our forefathers,
the landfills of the mind where they turned in
with the plush（豪华的） and orange peel of yesteryear（不久以前）,
used up and entertained and put to bed
at last; to this view where everything seems to turn
on the middle distance. Crematoria, multiplex
way stations in the form of big sheds
that house their promises of goods and sex;
to the promise of a university town,
will board at this station, no shakedown
relieve me of papers or contraband（走私货）:
this is England. Nobody will pull the cord
on these thoughts, though the cutlery and glasses
a carriage full of ghosts taking their places.
of fifty years collected in windows;
to worlds of interiors, to credit deals
with nothing to pay until next year, postcodes
as day drains, and I see myself transposed
into the dark, lifting my glass. Belief
is one thing, though the dead have none of it.
What would they make of me? This pinot noir
on my expenses, time enough to write
the miles of feint, the months of Sunday school,
the gallons of free milk, all led to here:
an empty dining-car, a single fool
reflected endlessly on the night air.
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