Backward Carriage, Early Draft of a Life

The train shudders

through a corridor of fields,

windows flicking past barns, pylons,

a rusted ute half‑sunk in grass.

I sit face against the direction of travel,

watching the day unspool behind me,

towns shrinking

into small, forgettable shapes:

A few old choices drift up,

passing sensations, random impressions,

things that just happened

when I wasn’t paying attention.

The carriage rocks.

Someone coughs.

A suitcase thuds against metal.

Symbolic of something vague, 

the world doing what it does.

A bend in the track reveals

a cluster of houses

I once thought I’d never leave.

Their roofs look smaller now,

paint bleached by years

I never bothered counting.

I try to picture the version of myself

that walked those streets,

but the image won’t settle—

it flickers,

then dissolves into the passing scrub.

The train slows near a siding,

gravel kicking up under the wheels.

A dog trots along the fence line,

keeping pace for a moment

before drifting off toward the sheds.

I breathe in the diesel‑warm air,

searching for lack of meaning,

half-expected revelations—

the motion lets me sigh

carry me backward

to wherever this line ends.

.