Wilfred Owen's Luggage by David Foley …..and it is said…. that on an uninviting November night, Wilfred Owen arrived at Penrith station en route to the Lakes. All that history records of his visit, is his annoyance at the lack of concern expressed by the locals regarding the whereabouts of his luggage. A dull porter made some excuse As I stood hard staring, The guard's lamp had long since winked and the signal nodded. Having travelled in elation, escaping from the suburbs of the mind, Hungry to feast on the silence (at one with herb and stone.) I shall learn poetry here. Instead: I overhear my razor vowels slicing the night air Falling blunt against sinuous apologies and grunted half concern. To feast on the silence; the waterlight, the sudden squall, my early Powers falling in heavy footfalls on crags and scree- Words unsure underfoot. To seek out unfashioned blocks of thought To work them over in the studio. To quarry confidence. Instead , my ranting wrent the still air. When in some tranquil distant hour, Some glowing cityscape before me, I will draw on this conflict And through times distilling glass, Transform this night of loss and argument and find my old man 'stout of heart.'