At junction of thumb and index
dusk settles in the platforms’ palm:
signal colours without word switch,
so I halt while the year divides.
A scattering of swifts command
their heaven, black on dimming blues,
as rumbling dock-bound freight, contained
and corporate, cuts through the calm.
My ears, tuned still for wind of change,
are empty waggons seeking load:
the weight of remembrance fills them
full with lingering, cryptic hues.
An express hurls a dawdling dove,
in puff of feathery snow, to death.
When losing track, it is what’s heard
that counts, not what we can decode.
Beyond the iron footbridge, painted
green and red, snaking points choose sides.
Homeward, parting light from darkness,
my branch line curves and holds its breadth.
vii.2013
