Across the carriage sit two lads,
Their colours bright and clear;
One dark of hair and dressed in green,
One ginger-headed near.

A white and azure football shirt
Falls loosely on his frame;
They talk in low and easy tones;
We never catch a name.

And Andrew sits beside me now
Upon the Cork-bound line;
The fields roll past in green and gold,
His hand lies close to mine.

Their eyes meet ours a moment, then
Their glances slip away;
As though we know the practised art
Of looking, then the sway.

Perhaps they’re lovers, hand in hand
When no one else can see;
Perhaps just friends who share a seat,
As any friends might be.

We cannot know, nor need to ask
What stories each may bear;
Four travellers on a southbound train,
A glance we briefly share.