Monday, October 16, 2006

Trusting Trains.

Through the damp echoes,
past hidden mossy trickles
in the half-dark,

stumbling over crumbling bricks,
one hand sticky green
with cold wall-slime.

The abstract mosaic
of broken beer bottles
glittered like Christmas,
and the peal of kicked cans
bounced around the tunnel.

The clatter of cans
annoyed an old piece of corrugated tin.

Corrugated tin can cut.
Corrugated tin can trip.

It lay in wait
then tripped and ripped.

Next time,
I’ll walk up the embankment,
take my chances
stepping over the West Coast Line.
I can trust
the eight-fifteen to Glasgow
never to lie in wait.

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