Four more stops.
I rest my cheek against an ice-cold windowpane
That clouds as I exhale.
I pass the ruins of religion,
Much older than anything there is back home,
And I remind myself not to forget.
Three more stops.
An English day with the clouds resting
Heavy and grey, matching my thick, wool sweater.
I hug my overused canvas backpack close to my chest,
And balance my blue suitcase between my knees.
I built a life in these two bags.
Two more stops.
My nose crinkles instinctively.
Someone near me must be eating something with onions.
My hard plastic seat rocks back and forth
As a cell phone rings.
Lives collide under iridescent lights.
One more stop.
I take a last look out
At the white sheep dotting ancient green hills.
A gasp of cold air as the doors slide open forces me out of my dreamland.
It takes lion hearted courage to get me on my feet and out onto the platform.
One foot in front of the other takes me farther away from here,
But closer to home.