Sunday, 16 January 2011

Last Train Home

One of those train compartments
From the films in grainy colour:
Through a peeling swivel latch, where
Bronzed wall-lamps trickle muffled
Gold over a congregation of eight,
And Autumnal curtains hang half-drawn.

It spells romance: these lives
Balancing on a knife-edge of mortality,
Hurtling the east-coast cliff-edges;
A storm scene, and the fanged rocks
Thrusting spray close to the rails.

He sat in this scene: a wordless adrenaline.
A stranger: her neck infused him with a scent
Of the wild, had caught him as if by sudden
Thirst. An instantly raw addiction. He craved those
Eyes abandoned to the tide; lips captivating
In their proximity; each breath of hers a narrative.

His heart revved thunder in his ribs, mad, timid:
Pressing against him like her, he dreamt.
Trembling blood, he was filled with a current
Not unlike the sea: almost launching himself on her but
Resisting – just – the taste of the sand.

The moment, he felt, was resting on this
Furlong of rails as the urban world encroached
With heightening layers of imposing grey,
And the glass welled up and wept with lungfuls
Of rain; and yet his needle sharp love: deep, swelling,
Swelled, throbbing, was bleeding him red, and

He fixed his eyes in passion: stretched, wavered,
Grasped the air, and invaded her like

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