This is a bit of a rambler, and not exhaustive either. A poem about journeys for the dverse prompt.
It used to be the the terraces of Finsbury Park,
the solemn grey rows that said, we’re nearly there,
the rolling rows of houses packed so close
of this North London where I used to live,
home for a while, if ever such a beast could be a home.
Then the Eiffel Tower towered on the rim
of a skyline, low and light-specked at the end
of a day of travelling from the coast—the white
ghost of Montmartre, the Butte Chaumont,
slowing train, falling into a beloved’s arms,
and every time, the thrill, the privilege
to share the magic of this place and call it home.
Other towns, cathedral landmarks,
the train that hooted curving round the mountain
to scare the boar from off the tracks,
Later, a river crossed, slow, languid, southern, at walking pace,
alongside golden stone, warm as desert sand.
Perhaps we have reached the end of all these lines,
the dusty cities, bustling, river-woven streets,
in this tiny lane that rises, falls,
meanders like a stream between rows of oak,
a ploughed field, then meadowland with rippling hedgerows,
until through the elms and oaks, waiting,
a house blinks its eyes
and the journey