The Train Journey Poem by James Fitzpatrick

It was a dreamy evening, one which brought the romantic sparse mist which
covers wide wrought iron platforms, like Victorian melodramas.

I was being 'Pollocked' by the puddle making, clothes dappling stuff, which soaks socks, stockings, boots and shoes, sticking the aul drowned ticket collector to their chevron Sunday best. I spied a damp flaking bench and climbed wearily aboard.

Here, counting baggage I wished was sent ahead, heaving a heavy deathly sigh, I slumped till the old man's whistle screamed once more....

The first night had me tossing and turning, fixing and refixing the
raven coloured blackouts and creaky doors. I leaned left, my head on a frosted window,
blowing portholes with an exasperated breathe, before
chasing a lonely droplet with a manicured nail. I joined the dots holding up Orion's trousers, and
drifted off as the night time's black met morning orange, and I was none the wiser....

At breakfast, I wrestled with an ‘unslept' haze, with
the ‘Click Claks'
mounting beneath my restless feet, the
unhappy tones of the surrounding hoard,
the soggy toast, the devil's headlines and cold coffee, only to be picked up by the happiness of youth, the running
Chasing happy giggles, and arrival of free daily paper.

I arose with the Sun as it battled passing ‘mallows, winking at me
through long wooden arms, swimming in a pale blue sea above, speckled with white tops and surfing zeros.

In the afternoon I'd snooze in my now dry socks with the Orient's smell on coveted bosom, till I'd evening
in the comfort of home, under the falling of poseidon's great eye.