The lights were on
The gates were down
Nobody was waiting
Then, the train went through
The gates went up
The lights went out
I walked towards the gap
Then the lights came on
The gates went down
(Nobody had gone through)
But, this time
And a weary traveller
Were its victims
I crossed the bridge
And then the train went through
It could have been the same train
As if on a toy-train set
But, I think, upon reflection, that it probably wasn’t
The gates went up
The lights went out
The two cars went through.
I never looked back
Totton, 5:45am this morning, facing East (I hope)
The Sun rose in the West
And never set;
For a thousand years
‘Nobody’ got much sleep.
Just another Monday morning
Nothing to fuss about
No troubles ahead
Nothing but blue skies
And not ‘too’ hot.
So, I’m sat on the bench at the railway station once more. A week’s work is ahead of me and I am fashionably early for the train. It is quiet to a degree and I am the first one here for the Waterloo service (not a euphemism) stopping at Southampton, Southampton Airport (Parkway), Eastleigh, and so on.
Distant seagulls are busy practicing for a Wagnerian opera performance; whilst freight and early commuters are droning along the nearby A35 creating a continuous band of FM road noise.
It is quite chill and still the day retains an element of the night. The sky is a blanket of one shade of the colour grey, it may be that there is not a cloud in the sky – we must wait and see, it could just be awaiting the starter-motor of the Sun to give it a blue blush.
Posted in Blog, Monday Morning, Off to Work, poem, Poetry, railway, Totton
Tagged #Blog, #MondayMorning, #Railway, #Totton, #trainstation, Poem, Poetry
Spot the pigeon.
From the bridge I can see the roof of our house
And probably from the roof of our house you can see the bridge
but I will take that as a given.
From the bridge
On I go
But, the day ahead I do not yet know
The start is with me
But, as for the rest
I shall wait to see the show.
Totton – as it says on the sign.
Totton Railway Station
It is but a little station
“The train arriving at Platform 1 is going East…
Platform 2 if you wish to go West.”
The direction is up to you
You want to be
Just buy a ticket and be gone
Upon a train travelling stately along the right lines.
So, from the little station
Three stops West of the city
(If you are on the ‘stopping’ train)
You can depart at will
And the world
Is your oyster.
Monday Morning Platform Poetry #2
The ticket machine is having a bad morning
A vacant expression upon its face
It is moaning quietly to itself in the corner
Considering getting out of this place.
But, though it has all the tickets
To all the destinations,
It’s roots are here
And it’s going to stick around
A while longer;
It doesn’t really have a say.
And, as a procession of commuter types approach in hopes
And turn in resignation,
The ticket machine continues to moan quietly
Not issuing, but frowning
Dwelling upon the career path chosen for it
By those who have the third rail power
Eling, 14-07-2015 photo by me.
The Word of the Day
The Word of the Day it is… Cloud
It is coating the Sun with a shroud
It is humid and hot
Under the duvet we’ve got
So much for fluffy and pretty
Or wandering lonely
Such things, here, are just not allowed.
Posted in Cloud, Eling, Limerick, poem, Poetry, Totton, Word of the Day, WotD
Tagged #Cloud, #Eling, #limerick, #Totton, #WordoftheDay, #WOTD, Poem, Poetry
They stop me
More often than not
And I watch the train
Sometimes as many as four
I don’t remember more
But, four is an exception
Not a rule
And sometimes the gates open
And let a few cars through
But, not usually mine
Before they close again
Which is fine
As I’m happy to wait
And to watch the next train
Posted in Hampshire, poem, Poetry, Southampton, Totton, TottonTrainGates, Train Gates
Tagged #Siuthampton, #Totton, #TottonTrainGates, #TrainGates, Poem, Poetry
“Wot! No poems!”
Okay, as you asked so nicely you can have a poem…
…about where I live….
The thing about Totton,
Which has never been forgotten,
Is that the place was not on
The map as where they invented cotton;
It’s more of a blot on
A landscape so rotten
And isn’t a spot on
The fine city of Taunton
Or Totnes, or Tottenham, and not on
Your life is it unusual to hear: “What on
Earth is that!” Hot on
That thought’s heels, with kettle and pot on,
We find it difficult to plot on
A map its position, location,
And it’s not the place for a relaxing vacation
Of your own volition; trust intuition
And leave it well alone, put on
Your dancing shoes and spot on
Time waltz away until you are a dot on