And now at a quarter past two as the train
pulls out of the station, destination assured,
this thought sticks its dead knife into my
heart. And I think of devastation when I look
at the couples holding hands as they say goodbye.
The trees seem to drop in silence, the rain
clouds in mocking laughter, and the empty windows
of passing buildings tell their own story, while
mine lies buried in the past. The grime of an
industrial heritage sickens me when once the prospect
gladdened me. Now modernisation troubles me
when once it thrilled me, but then all seemed fair
when you stood in the station to greet me.
The conductor passes by; he seems to know my story
and leaves me to contemplate my ticket. A single,
one way journey, possibly he’ll ask on the way back
but my face reveals all. And so I sit staring
at the approaching countryside all spread out before me,
like the world to a young man on his
journey.
Rambling buildings spill their past onto the encroaching
grass. Trees twist their braches through the old
decaying windows, roofless the rain pours in. And I feel
open to the elements even though the double paned
window shelters me. But beautiful is the sky when
it touches the ground, spilling its brilliance over
chasing shadow; content are the horses chewing on
grass, and a river winds peacefully round a
polluting tower. All seems at ease in a fragile
world where being in love and never speaking your
heart is the most painful kind of love.
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