A small calf on a cart, on cobblestones, happily whisking his tail, a Polish stork, lost in thought, a
peasant woman wearing, as you’d expect, a kerchief on her head. A basket in her hand. The
landscape rolls along at the same, steady pace, without stopping, and then illogically veils itself
I switch seats with a child who would rather watch the world unroll.
The tape is winding up somewhere on the other side and the reel must already be bulging.
It contains so much, all that and this too, the perpetual policemen, by trade and calling, stalking
furiously, and these light-hearted village names: Pszczółki, Szymankowo.
My face may be still, but in my heart I’m bursting with laughter. We’re allowed to travel
by train again. This delicate pressure on my arm is only your sleep.
About this poem
This poem, representing Poland, is part of The Written World – our collaboration with BBC radio to broadcast a poem from every single nation competing in London 2012.