Sitting on a train,
waiting for the thing to move.
Before the whistles sound.
Then suddenly we are off –
floating above ground,
grinding along like a song.
Secret feelings from long ago.
Memories of other times,
of journeys made.
Down at the waterline,
the bottom way.
A skirt along the river,
on a long-forgotten line.
Old doors that lock
with a pull and a bang.
Windows that roll down.
Livery of leather and smoke.
An old station long gone.
Down at the river –
where Simpsons meets
the slipway and Swans.

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