Ksenia Rychtycka

Steady rain, then a light mist clings
to the window as blurs of flowered
windowboxes and goats soar past.
The train from Budapest to Lviv runs fast,
then slow, hiccuping to a stop.

Arrival is delayed. Half a century gone
by and Mother waits to touch the ground,
slip into the reverie of a childhood
half-remembered, dreams of teaching
in rural mountain villages never quashed.

Six hours go by as new wheels are fitted
onto the wider tracks slashing East
from West – orders of Stalin --
an iron fist clasped shut.

Over last miles, the railcar thunders over
coarse earth covering unmarked
graves. Outside there are green mountains,
a lightening sky, whispering wind
nudging Mother from her seat as she rises,

stretching her arms out like wings.