I took a train to Runcorn recently and wrote these two poems about the trip.
In Stafford there were train spotters
older men cameras slung round their necks
no pencils, no spiral bound notebooks
They take note of the rolling stock
record every serial number
in search of the big score
One took my photograph
as my carriage slid by
just another statistic
in a sea of dates, times and tonnage
All the train spotters were older men, I wondered if younger people collect train numbers? This second poem is reportage of my return and the fact the station was closed due to the signalling equipment being broken. Decades of private ownership and the trains don't even run as efficiently as they did for Sherlock Holmes. Aren't tory policies marvellous.
when I got to the station
people were pouring from inside
a man told me the signals were toast
I almost didn’t believe
asked a woman for confirmation
early Thursday Runcorn town
the wind nags at you
bound to wear you down by noon
I know how such days play out
a single unexpected side step
and life is once more a struggle
I am not sure about either poem. I shall put them away and see if they survive future scrutiny.
Were you at the All Points East Festival last Sunday? I was and the Decemberists were superb. My daughter commented on just how good Colin Malloy's singing was. You can judge for yourself.
Until next time.
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