Trainspotting Poem by ANDREW BLAKEMORE

Upon the platform here I wait
And watch the rain come pouring down,
No other soul for company
To pass the time away,
The slatted bench on which I sit
With peeling paint all scrawled and etched,
Beside the bin that overflows
With litter and decay.

The hands upon the clock above
Seem frozen for so slow to move,
To click each minute passing by
It mocks relentlessly,
As puddles gather one by one
Beyond the shelter of the roof,
Where wind does blow the paper cups
Which yields more misery.

I hiver with the bitter cold
And blow my hands to keep them warm,
Yet still I find no respite from
This bleak November's eve,
Desrted in the desperate throws
Of winter how I long to be,
Back home again but still I wait
For I just cannot leave.

I gaze unto the silver rails
That wind into the distance there,
With sleepers stained so thick with oil
Yet still no train in sight,
While over on the other line
A Deltic trundles slowly past,
And pulling coal in blackened trucks
With all its strength and might.

With whistling wheels and buffer chinks
The diesel coughs and cackles by,
While points do clang and clunk so loud
And choking smoke of blue,
That drifts across these empty lines
I hold my breath until it clears,
And wach the train as it does go
Then disappear from view.

And then the hush descends again
Upon the empty platform here,
While circles in the puddles stare
With every dropp that falls,
The red light shines from out the gloom
As I look down the track ahead,
And wait and wait but nothing comes
A captive of these walls.