3 February 2018 – Ghost Train

Ghost Train

Sunday, arrive late at the station,

grass is growing, no-one is here –

warped rails blistered with orange,

in the eaves pigeons poop

cooing stridently

strutting to flaunt

their stuff to






a sky-lark

soars, warbling its

rainbow melody

peace descends – heat rises

from tar-drenched timber sleepers

I wait in vain to hear a toot

or whistle or a chug of white steam


(A Nonet)



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