by Aidan Chivers
As I wait for my train I watch thoughts and strangers roam
In two centuries of litter where I stop and bathe my mind;
I trace the seats, the tracks, the stars, to see, or maybe find
A moment for myself in this place they’ve all called home.
I step across the gap, weighed down with the heavy tome
Of age-old words and waste, which leaves me stuck behind:
As the train enters the night, to its man-made path confined,
Harsh lights brush through Bristol’s moonlit monochrome.
A man stands still on the platform, looking back at me,
With eyes that catch me in their grasp, his pupils inky-black.
I form a poem in his head as Brunel’s station starts to flee;
He shrinks away, a distant shape across the track.
I lose myself, I turn, and aching, strain to see –
I watch and blink, but just my own two eyes stare back.