Sebastopol
leaning over the side
I let my loose arms dangle
to have skimmed the surface
and left a trail of fingerprints
before we passed it over
a cog train cutting
through the mountain pass
I press my forehead to the glass
seeing the peaks
all have a misty halo
out onto the deck
where with strangers staring
a wooden notice greets us
to say in seven languages
‘cigarettes permitted’
nothing can be done
when a playful zephyr scatters
a stack of tattered postcards
and buries them in snow
beside the tracks
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