The White Train
The white train emerges from a dark curtain
of tall fir trees with its coat of light snow.
The white train appears as though newly escaped
from the jaws of night. The white train steams
out of the forest into the clear white
meadow, melting the fresh snow around it.
The trees are towering. Ancient giants.
A whole section seems to have been logged.
Over there the folded arms of soldiers who
gather in small groups. We cannot see
leaders or individual faces. Horsemen far away.
On their way to the revolution perhaps.
In the dining car, behind the velvet curtains—
blood puddings and sea pie, clear soups
and small marrow. Already today
the chef has cooked three luncheons
while crossing Poland; the starched
waiters managed without spilling a drop.
Dozens of dirty white napkins heap on hampers
like miniature Alps threatening to fall. But
now the train has braked and stopped. Small boys
fog the windows with their warm breath
as they watch the soldiers with silver sabers who
order everyone off the train, into the new snow.
Copyright Credit: John Spaulding, “The White Train” from The White Train. Copyright © 2004 by John Spaulding. Reprinted by permission of Louisiana State University Press.
Source: The White Train (Louisiana State University Press, 2004)