Drizzle

Today I had a meeting in London which unfortunately, I had to attend. Having flown from Guernsey to Gatwick I took the train into central London this meant that I had to stand in the cold drizzle on a station platform for quarter of an hour waiting for a train to arrive.

Three minutes before the train was due an announcement came over the platform speakers telling everyone that there was to be a platform change. With all the escalators bringing people down onto the platform it meant that the only way to change platform was to use the steps. “Whoopee” I hear you say, “big deal”.

Well when tethered to the ground by two walking sticks and having a top speed of a startled tortoise it was going to be a major challenge. Fortunately, being Britain, the train was a couple of minutes late and I managed to change platforms with just enough time to board the train.

Having arrived early for the meeting, I decided to write a poem about a station platform I remember from a dim and distant past. I hope you enjoy it;

Drizzle

The biting cold wind blows the rain in,
not the hard downpour that people sit out
but the incessant drizzle that seeps in.
The tiny irritating droplets that seep through
the most resilient waterproof.
The type of rain that sets in for the day.

Travellers huddle on the platform,
using a closed café as a wind break.
Thick coats, warm gloves, hats, scarves.
are not enough to cheer their grim faces.
With chins tucked low into raised collars
they hide like primeval man in the lee of a stone.

A voice crackles; “The Train approaching….
Heads lift and turn to the right in unison,
Slowly a train rumbles into the station.
Reluctantly passengers move to toe the line
the train stops, doors open to the awkward dance
as passengers tussle to get in or out of the rain.

John Carré Buchanan
8th December 2011

Train Trip

There are no trains in Guernsey, but I have always found traveling in them interesting. 

The views you get within the cities and towns are always so candid as the rails tend to run behind factories and houses giving insights into what goes on behind the facade.

Once out in the country it is a case for sitting back and letting the world flash by, and perhaps doing a little people watching.

Train Trip

Spray painted bricks
a grey metal box.
Factory yards,
tall office blocks.

Terraced houses,
and narrow gardens,
swings in the park,
but the neighbourhood hardens.

Then alongside a river,
and over a bridge.
Green open fields
stretch out to a ridge

A thud and a roar
as another train passes,
then past the inn
where they’re raising their glasses

Pylons cross fields
carrying power.
I look at my watch
it’s already an hour

Cows in a field
wait at the gate.
Just like the farmer,
We’re going to be……late.

Past shopping centre
with acres of cars.
Now the train’s slowing
this stop is ours.

Into the station
we slowly rumble.
A sound from the speakers
and out we all tumble.

John Carré Buchanan
09 October 2010