Boat Train

Standing in the marine station, I scan

the shabby weeds growing up between the tracks,

late August, tired flowers blown into seed,

while people stumble past with heavy cases;

on the blank walls the paint is cracked and peeling,

and the stale air is stained with salt and urine.

No-one belongs on this grey platform;

no-one really belongs in the seedy town beyond,

with its closed-down market and unfriendly pubs,

a transit camp where you

don’t dare stay too long, where you

better not catch anyone’s eye.

The train is old and shabby coaches,

all crowded and chaos, claustrophobic,

full of noise though no-one seems to speak;  at last

it jerks into motion, platform lights streak across the dirty windows;

it lurches across the points, as the binding brakes squeal and moan,

liquid spills from a beer can as it rolls.

I look cautiously at the tired faces

between those untidy stacks of bags and cases;

for you perhaps a beginning, a play newly begun,

but for me this is the final act,

for better or for worse the end of my dreaming time

and the last run for home.