Poem No. 2
Night Mail
This is the Night Mail crossing the border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door,
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb;
The gradient’s against her, but she’s on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder,
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily, she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her black-faced coaches.
Sheepdogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes; no one wakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.
(W.H. Auden)
