A Model Railway Poem by Paul Henry.

Peering in through windows we see them,
our parents, dimly lit
'for authenticity', reading Wizard
or Girl's Own ... or buying another hotel
on Old Kent Road, speculating
for dreams, between the tracks
and broccoli-like trees.

Or are they the ones in the tunnel,
whose hair he painted white,
who wait in darkness for a signal,
remembering the war?

A whistle blows.
On a platform, holding their pose,
Trevor Howard and Celia Johnson
won't let go, won't let go.