Travelling, always moving.


This is where I am heading, a weekly crossing of the country from Essex to Nottingham, home of the lace-makers, and of course the best football team in the Midlands. I enjoy the sights and sounds of St Pancras, and imagine how travellers have made similar journeys in different eras.  The architecture of the station is beautiful, and has recently enjoyed a successful restoration, now homing the international train which runs straight into Paris.

This is St Pancras today,

Moving in time

I heard a line on the radio,
and back I span; a girl in a play.
Unwilling to be sucked
into the vortex; disappear.
It happens like that,
yesterdays popping up
like mushrooms in damp grass.
On the train today I sat,
sketching without views
on much at all, listening
to much of nothings, wondering
I was never like these girls
cool and lovely, opposite.

I rest my forehead, contact
with the shiny chrome handrail,
watching the world, its magnificent
diversity pass it’s way below.
I have made this journey hundreds
of days, seen thousands in snapshots
of their lives.

Picked out murderers, mothers,
the homeless, Americans,
pondered over  possibilities
of new romances, lost appointments,
contracts I should care about
– but don’t.

In the new smart St Pancras station,
I felt the same as I felt
twenty years ago, the world alien .
Composed, I  move among
the crowd, knowing my story
a little more than then.
Knowing all stories are imperfect,
and not without their pain.


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