Men fly about you.
Like moths,
smoking opium.
Gently fluttering
in the pale light.
That was the year
I travelled,
back and forth.
North to South.
Living on railway food.
While green fields pass.
Nothing changes
during this dream time.
The trains are either late,
or never coming.
The government lurches,
from one crisis to another.
And you keep me waiting.
On cold platforms.
With a soft handset glow
for company.
At Doncaster,
always Doncaster –
the murmur of the train
is so pleasing.
So soporific,
that I join the others.
Circulating in the pale light.
Floating on a current
of rarified air.

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