At Altandi, I look out the train window, blankly.
Across the carpark, a woman pushes a lawnmower
along the footpath.
She is businesslike,
slightly too short for the handles,
looking straight ahead.
She pushes it along the concrete, as though it were
a pram, and she were walking off her babyweight
lulling the engine to sleep.
I wonder where she is going, so matter-of-factly;
so purposefully, she might be going visiting.
A playdate, perhaps, with two-stroke oil served
in plastic mugs.
She has barely gone a step or two before the train moves on
and I with it, but for the rest of the trip
I see her in my mind’s eye
pushing so briskly.
Where are they off to, the woman and the lawnmower?
I like to think they have left home
decisively, filled with hope and petrol,
and are setting out in search of greener pastures