It's cold—a February day.
I stare down at dirty, oil soaked ballast—forced down by years of pressure from the shiny-topped and rusty rails; the evident wearing of years.
Then the churning diesel—dirty green, unwashed, untended.
The clatter—destination, information, voices, engagement with distraction, confusion, standing, moving, pacing, asking.
Noise—the train doors open.
Clamour and hiss—it hurts my ears.
Then the surge of escapees—prisoners released.
Flooding to freedom they're disgorged in a mass—a liquid flow of travellers pours out; the steadying feel of land at last.
A pause—relief, a calm in the movement and trouble.
But then another hiss—a banging, ear splitting hiss.
The tide changes—the moon has gone full circle, the flood reversed, the flow again.
Then the clamour for a place, stowing the case, deciding where to face.
Then another hiss and shut away—my love is shut away.
I stand alone on the platform.
Separated from her by the barrier of glass and steel.
I peer in—witnessing, silently cut off, hoping; the static watching the transitory.
As if staring down from a cloud I gape and gawk.
Inside, settling, arranging, equipping for the temporary home—facing forward, looking to the destination.
I shiver as the separation engulfs me—a shivering cloud of isolation.
It’s cold—a February day, but now it’s colder for my loss.
