The Late Train From Kidsgrove To Carlisle

Scoring a pace across England’s back,

People are ferried over the night-blackened track:

The have’s and have nots, the fat the thin,

The bankers, the bakers, newlywed homemakers;

Lonely hearts, cleaners, and nurses,

And poets alone lost in their verses.

Powering past industries decrepit and crumbling,

Cruising near pastures, with cows mooing an’ grumbling.

Farmers asleep, miss her pushing back time,

As poets dreaming, write you in their rhymes.

There’s whispered chattering amongst the fares,

About tragic headlines, but who really cares?

Pandemic gossip spreads through the carriages,

About death, divorce, and arranging marriages.

Staring through the window, the time his own,

A poet sighs, ignores the beeps from his phone.

The driver’s in love with the rhythmic rail,

Heavy skies rip, weeping knuckles of hale.

The pink-haired girl, with the big brown eyes,

Receives mail from oncology and starts to cry.

A starlight express, she catches her breath at stations,

Disembarking people from countless nations.

Those with faith, those without, and those plain unsure;

And boys made men, returning home from war.

The black, the white, the brown, the taupe;

Skin is different, but without colour is hope.

Nearing the end of her journey, creeping is dawn,

Only the driver and poet, see the new day born.

Solemn are carriages drawn to a squealing halt.

The driver leaves his seat, and stretches his bones,

As the poet leaves, adrift and alone.