Impatient, fuming lines converge
needlessly it would seem.
Each trunk lovingly coiled
around the tail of the beast ahead.
The silky sheen of a blackbird
tunnels under the barrier,
ticking over the tracks
like a mindless mechanical toy.
A jogger – all aspiration and perspiration-
simmers at the gate.
Steaming like a thoroughbred
before the first fence.
Yet the train which serves only cups of ageing,
from which we cannot alight.
Hurtles to a station
were all services terminate.
It calls at Joy, Grief and Love.
Where the first time traveller
nervously shuffles
from foot to foot.
But a fist gripping a hard iron lever
in a white lapboard shed,
raises the rails skyward
to a precarious vertical plane.
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