By Kate McLoughlin
At midnight, at the border, the train,
Which had roared through birch forests,
Movement drained from it.
Implacability in iron.
A quiet fortress.
Around it scurried tiny figures –
A flurry of nationalities
Weightless as scraps of paper.
But the train was still.
KATE McLOUGHLIN is writing a literary history of silence. Don't tell anyone.
Art by Alice Penrose