Running Late
My father stands with his back to the fire
trying to keep our spirits up
in the waiting-room, speaking of trains
and life getting better for all of us.
We study brazen, purple flames,
listen for a piston pulse,
picture a single pinpoint of light
on the front of a smokebox.
The station’s become a rickety island
of brittle canopies, empty platforms
afloat on wreaths of vapour breath.
Veils of mist cross the Levels,
spill from rhynes and rake through hedges.
No wonder the train is late this December
that frosts the points and grips the tracks
of every line that veins through England.
What will stay in the mind is the endless waiting
for something to happen that does not happen,
for the slow return of the prodigal son
from a distant city, homing for Christmas,
on a train that won’t come, as my father stands
with his back to the fire in the waiting-room,
forever describing a golden future,
a star coming at us out of the night.