The Night Mail and Other Poems

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This is the Night Mail crossing the border,

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Bringing the cheque and the postal order,

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Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,

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The shop at the corner and the girl next door.

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Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:

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The gradient's against her, but she's on time.

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Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder

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Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,

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Snorting noisily as she passes

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Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.

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Birds turn their heads as she approaches,

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Stare from the bushes at her blank-faced coaches.

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Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;

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They slumber on with paws across.

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In the farm she passes no one wakes,