En Route, the Flying Scot

Filled with festival folk, the train pushes on.
Past village and town, iron angel, cafe boat.
The talk inside is of plays and band,
as removed from the land as this tent inner fan.

On to the border the sun is still flickering,
the Welsh rockers stop bickering
about names hysterical.
The people before talked of Shakespeare and rhyme.
But they left the carriage when we crossed the Tyne.

Over the Tweed, we're into Berwick station:
is this the land of the Scot or still the Angle's nation?
We're into the Southern Upland, where coins merk the Way.
But the talk is of Chuck Norris, straight or gay.
Talking more shite, not watching the view.
No thoughts of Nature in any but the few.
The male train continues to Waverley terminus,
where Scott and his prose is ignored by the detritus.