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:
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.
Taken from the e-pamphlet The Dream Library & Other Poems (Various Artists 2013, firstname.lastname@example.org)