The Signalman

The Signalman

The night is another land

With strange shapes

And deformed hands,

With faces half seen

In lucid dreams,

With phantom pains

And noises

No-one can explain,

I gaze out the window pane

At the flames dancing

Across night's black membrane,

The signalman's burnt down

His cottage,

He's gone insane,

He's lost the timetable

To the suburban trains.