I
This is the night mail crossing the border
Badly delayed with the loos out of order
Coaches for the rich, calf trucks for the poor
Beaten up tables and fiddly end doors
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb
The signal's against her, we'll be some time
Past cotton-grass and moorland border
Aircon's packed up, it's getting colder
Snorting noisily she passes
Motionless as silent grasses
Birds turn their heads as they approach us
Flying faster than our locomotive
Sheep dogs cannot turn her course
As we sit trapped among the gorse
In the farm she passes noone wakes
As finally she comes off the brakes
II
Dawn freshens, Her climb is done
Down towards Glasgow she descends
Towards the semis pouring down suburban hills
Towards the fields of concrete peaks, the tower blocks
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen
All Scotland waits for her
In dark glens, beside pale green lochs
Men long for trains