Flowers on Platform 7



I stand on Platform 7, cold,
Watching where train tickets are sold.

A mother buys three, all return,
Living her dream to see the world.
She said she didn’t want children,
Perhaps thinking about them when
She’d had her time, seen wondrous things,
Witnessed beauties that nature brings.
For now, Telford will have to do:
Screaming kids and shopping for food.

I see a man buy another;
In merciless cold, he shudders;
He gloved hands shoved in his pockets,
Brittle fingers clutch his ticket.
As for him, this man’s seen the world,
All tickets single, no return;
Monotony of foreign desks,
Grey offices – only the best.

A girl buys a few for her friends,
Tickets to their night without end;
Drinks from mystery gents await,
Dancing, singing, coming home late.
Ev’ry Friday night is the same:
Drink, fight, get arrested again;
She is sick of the weekly haze,
Ageing at night, rotting by day.

The three and I stand on
The platform, waiting for
The train to come; as it
Crawls into the station,
We close our eyes, and breathe
As four forty-shilling
Penalties are incurred.


About DickensianJack

Born in Wolverhampton in November '93, moved to Huddersfield in September 2012. Studying at the University of Huddersfield. In love with the town - simple as that. As for the blog itself, I've been doing bits and pieces of writing (with varying quality) for a few years. A friend suggested I start a blog to share my work. Most of the stuff on here is poems, but there's other work interspersed on the page. Feel free to leave any comments on my work. Twitter: @DickensianJack (Jack Dickens) Facebook: Cheers, enjoy.
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