Lines between Trains, by Clare Rainsford
The departure boards almost a poem –
Aberdeen, Dundee, Newcastle, York.
The adverts too glossy.
More people than I’ve seen in a week.
I come from the south. From a single-track station
with a ticket machine that sometimes works,
Where the cutting is overgrown with ragwort and cow parsley,
Where a dunnock flits suspiciously to her nest in the crack under the eaves.
Here, in the between-place, trains are ten-a-penny.
And I am neither here nor there –
queasy, thirsty, tired and footsore.
And the pigeons, swooping startlingly through the crowds
or hobbling beadily around my feet,
when I left them cooing on the chimney in the early morning,
the hollow echoes waking me at dawn.
Copyright the author and first published by Friends of Rowntree Park 2015.