Trainspotting

Upon the platform here I wait And watch the rain come pouring down, No other soul for company To pass the time away, The slatted bench on which I sit With peeling paint all scrawled and etched, Beside the bin that overflows With litter and decay. The hands upon the clock above Seem frozen for so slow to move, To click each minute passing by It mocks relentlessly, As puddles gather one by one Beyond the shelter of the roof, Where wind does blow the paper cups Which yields more misery. I hiver with the bitter cold And blow my hands to keep them warm, Yet still I find no respite from This bleak November's eve, Desrted in the desperate throws Of winter how I long to be, Back home again but still I wait For I just cannot leave. I gaze unto the silver rails That wind into the distance there, With sleepers stained so thick with oil Yet still no train in sight, While over on the other line A Deltic trundles slowly past, And pulling coal in blackened trucks With all its strength and might. With whistling wheels and buffer chinks The diesel coughs and cackles by, While points do clang and clunk so loud And choking smoke of blue, That drifts across these empty lines I hold my breath until it clears, And wach the train as it does go Then disappear from view. And then the hush descends again Upon the empty platform here, While circles in the puddles stare With every dropp that falls, The red light shines from out the gloom As I look down the track ahead, And wait and wait but nothing comes A captive of these walls.