DOWN THE LINE Poem by Louis De Paor

Down the Line

In the silence before the train,
she stands on the unsheltered platform,
her mind brittle as porcelain,
nerves tight as a fist.

In a shoulderbag,
amongst all her scented things,
there are memories
of unclouded summers,
of nights loud with fairground noise,
a jukebox throbbing
its catchcries of love,
the air heavy with cigarette smoke,
the smell of oil and sweat,
freckled weather
when she walked the prom,
a tang of seaweed on her skin,
slim as an hourglass,
bright as a fallen angel.

She straightens her back
and the world moves under her
as the train grinds its teeth
and fists its way
into the station.

In another town down the line
there's a man
who'll comb the grey from her hair,
who'll keep the heaviness of time
from her mind, and from her waist,
a man she's never met
who'll slow her violent heartbeat.