Photo: Train Tracks by Peter Griffin

This poem was based on my hometown having a rail service resume after many years of closure. Unfortunately, at that time, the original Victorian station building was being used as a bar, and the replacement was basically a plastic bus shelter! I thought it sad that the railway service seemed very low-key. Fortunately, the original station has since been restored to its former glory. 

Waiting: wet, weary and windswept,
small groups huddle against the cold.
Seeking protection in plastic bus shelters.

The sleeping giant of the old station building
lies hidden, waiting for a makeover.
Awaiting rooms.

An old train pulls in,
quiet, almost retiring.
No whistles here.

No hustle and bustle,
no smells, no atmosphere.
Public transport in private.

They bought this station back to life
like Frankenstein’s Monster,
but this is more like the ghost train.

Heavy metal tracks
with shiny silver tops
stretched to the horizon,
almost infinity,
almost forgotten.
Hard lines.

The old hissing steaming dinosaurs
have long since been made extinct.
No smoke – without fire.
To be replaced by the new
clean, silent, safe?
“Sorry, indefinite delays.”

    Photo: Petr Kratochvil

I based this poem on a previous house I lived in quite a few years ago. Although I drew on my experiences there, I have used a bit of artistic licence – it was never that bad a place to live!

I live in a street of terrace houses
where there should be a great community spirit,
but there isn’t.
Mutual respect and tolerance are in shorter supply
than parking spaces.
With a pavement as a front door step,
net curtains are no defence
against prying eyes and snarling voices.
In an area where councillors fear to tread,
even the loud speakers are distant
on election days.
I always vote, but I didn’t vote for this.
X marks the spot.

Four cars mark out the football pitch,
one of them is mine.
Another dent to my pride,
I wasn’t even asked to the game.

Hordes of street kids
acting tough to their audience,
playing their starring roles to full houses.

This should be a one-way street,
but nobody pays attention.
Permanent “For Sale” signs
should read “No Way Out”.