Stations Of The Cross (Poetry)

The journey stopped or barely started where
dotted on the platform snorting steam
in puffs of irritation figures stamp
up and down — glare at a red-lit screen
that bluntly tells the service is delayed
no poor excuse or explanation made
so chilled, they mill about — ward off the damp
with mutterings hung grim upon the air.

The station lights mere glimmers — lacking heart
throw sickly pools along a stretch of black
the staff gone home, the buffet locked up tight
no sight or sound from down the lonely track
the world seems somewhere else — far-off and blind
to those less fortunate and left behind
raw anger cannot change the careless night
tired minutes drag whilst souls ache to depart...

*****

At length they’ll write their letters to The Times
commit a host of grievances to ink
knowing how it’s likely to repeat —
this agony of waiting — mad to think
such actions make a difference in the scheme
of things designed to sour travel’s dream
cross, too, at standing miles without a seat
their passion whistles shrill between the lines.