Upon the platform here I wait <br />And watch the rain come pouring down, <br />No other soul for company <br />To pass the time away, <br />The slatted bench on which I sit <br />With peeling paint all scrawled and etched, <br />Beside the bin that overflows <br />With litter and decay. <br /> <br />The hands upon the clock above <br />Seem frozen for so slow to move, <br />To click each minute passing by <br />It mocks relentlessly, <br />As puddles gather one by one <br />Beyond the shelter of the roof, <br />Where wind does blow the paper cups <br />Which yields more misery. <br /> <br />I hiver with the bitter cold <br />And blow my hands to keep them warm, <br />Yet still I find no respite from <br />This bleak November's eve, <br />Desrted in the desperate throws <br />Of winter how I long to be, <br />Back home again but still I wait <br />For I just cannot leave. <br /> <br />I gaze unto the silver rails <br />That wind into the distance there, <br />With sleepers stained so thick with oil <br />Yet still no train in sight, <br />While over on the other line <br />A Deltic trundles slowly past, <br />And pulling coal in blackened trucks <br />With all its strength and might. <br /> <br />With whistling wheels and buffer chinks <br />The diesel coughs and cackles by, <br />While points do clang and clunk so loud <br />And choking smoke of blue, <br />That drifts across these empty lines <br />I hold my breath until it clears, <br />And wach the train as it does go <br />Then disappear from view. <br /> <br />And then the hush descends again <br />Upon the empty platform here, <br />While circles in the puddles stare <br />With every dropp that falls, <br />The red light shines from out the gloom <br />As I look down the track ahead, <br />And wait and wait but nothing comes <br />A captive of these walls.<br /><br />ANDREW BLAKEMORE<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/trainspotting/
