Tuesday, 4 June 2013

Poem: To the Northern Station

They come at me – and pass
like missed trains, failing
to stop on schedule, trailing
a line of lamp-lit heads.

I used to know them as faces
in remembered scenery,
and how the light fell, or rain
held off, and what was said.


At the fag-end of a long haul
I’m looking out on what’s expected:
mountainous horizon,
boys kicking hard against shale

to swing up and onto
empty carriage stairwells,
while sun glints on minarets,
wrecking yards, apartment blocks.

In the aloof vacancy of a ticket hall
puddled with water, nothing moves.
We push at the door, step outside –
and then everything does.

Tom Phillips

Taken from the e-pamphlet The Dream Library & Other Poems (Various Artists 2013, variousartists986@gmail.com)

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