Still troubled by severe back problems, I am not writing my blog at the moment. But I have to put on something for the poetry bus - I can't possibly miss that. So here I am, waiting at the Bus Stop, poem in hand, all ready for Monday morning. A poem about Trains, he said. Well this one is about trains which don't come - but it is an incident which did happen to me five years ago - and one which I often think about and wonder what happened next.
Birmingham New Street.
In ones and twos
they stand among their
tawdry luggage, waiting
for an hour-late train.
From a cold, wet
November funeral, I
join them, bringing the raw wind
The wind shuffles the day's detritus
along the platform and piles it up in
Announcements rattle between the
tiled pillars. No-one listens and
nothing moves but the second hand
on the station clock.
A woman standing by my side
tells me she is sixty-three
and going North to meet her lover.
"I have never felt like this before,"