These days I travel rarely,
even less by rail, I’m not a herd animal
ergo I am permanently unfamiliar
with station chaos.
On departing, the train glides forward
effortlessly, a low electric hum
raising its pitch to a softened wheeze,
that never seems to reach
its desired zenith.
Sitting cheek by jowl
amongst myriad instructions
and information signs
that no-one reads.
I am minded to notice the
great number of passengers
who use the tiny cabined toilet
and how brief their visits are,
as if taking the eucharist.
I glance outside, to gauge progress
but the sleekly narrow windows
and impressive speed
conspire to blur the countryside
to a green smear.
Sitting opposite a copious lady
is wearing a tee shirt, printed
to show a life-sized face stretched
tautly across her ample bosom.
I am disconcerted
as a pair of eyes stare me out
one from each breast,
I then realise the face belongs
to Maya Angelou
and poetic justice is duly served
I look away chastened
toward the tiny cabined toilet
still doing a roaring trade.
On peoples’ faces, I see
anguish, melancholy, enquiry
concern, dismay, urgency
but none look happy.
Thirty minutes pass,
outside the blur changes
from sage green to graffiti grey
as we begin to slow
the wheeze returns to a hum
passengers stir, the tiny cabin
uncharacteristically vacant
*
© Graham R Sherwood 05/22
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 