The railway vanishes toward the horizon;
the train stands at the station;
wind-blown snowflakes dance.
Among station poems, there is one by my father, Isao Akimura:
At a station where a branch line forks again, a friend leaves;
the train travels long along the coast.
I unusually like this one.Among the many poems that focus relatively on the self, it is closer to a sketch of life, and it also contains a sense of time.
With that somewhat in mind, I tried moving the setting away from the coastline.
It is a reply poem to Shiraishi’s:
Wrapped in particles of ice from a heavy frost,
the sky through a gap in a pure white window.
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