Birtwisles’ Pies

Three seasons in an hour today
As seen from the window of our train
That nudged its way from Chester.

Weak sunshine, light rain, then snow.

We stopped first at Delamere
At a field of stubble where fieldfares grazed
By birch trees broken by a storm
Or snapped clean by weight of ice.

You slept and missed Cuddington
And Greenbank, where the blonde girl left the train
Then teetered off on her high heels
To her distant suburban dreams,
And a flock of gulls that left for the Dee
At Lostock Gralam, where the sun appeared again.

You missed the peach-cheeked girl at Plumley
By the sign for Birtwisles’ Pies.
The largest cemetery I have ever seen.

And as we trundled across the plain
I doubted that I would ever see
Northwich again.