It’s okay

It’s okay, isn’t it, that we don’t mean

The same to each other? And does it really

Hurt that you’re something of a token for

A time, you may not even mark as important?

–

Because I don’t expect you to remember

When you read “Adlestrop”— your voice,

Above autumn weather, like a summer day:

Longed for and then slowly blown in.

–

And that faint impression of you is a part

Of a feeling now: the one that will arrive on

Quaint train platforms, or when I think of

The days kept for the scared and sentimental.

–

Then, when chance closes that useful rift,

You have the grace to nod in knowing recollection

When I bring it up to you. And, with mercy,

You say little more— a final gift to me.

Ode to the 319

Don’t you miss the 319?

The brutish sound of steel on steel.

A soulful choir’s roars and squeals,

That promised dreams beyond this line.

–

The narrow paths between the seats,

Coughing dust and worn threadbare.

The long nineties and Tony Blair,

Haunt the patterns of the fleet.

–

Doors beeped the same emphatic beep,

To much more brash, emphatic boys,

Who talked above the warning noise

That now just wards away their sleep.

–

We laughed across the table tops;

Youth carried through old England’s green.

It promised things we’d never seen

And led dreams towards their final stop.

–

I wait beside the busy tracks.

A ghost of that receding time,

Kept here by the yellow line

That never lets you back.

The View From The Galaxy Bridge

Yesterday I tried to set on paper, something of a place

where I would walk when I was younger,

One that now– looking back– seemed so full of wonder and delight.

A bridge, enclosed in windows that looped

all the way ’round and sprung high from the side of a town centre car park.

The heavy steps of mum and dad would shake the floor

and start the tingling in my feet. You were held above a nameless street

as cars and people moved beneath you.

It led to the cinema, with high ceilings

and the mingling smells of treats trapped in the carpet.

The films, of course, were a treat as well,

but on the way back you’d walk across the bridge– a space

between the world you’d just inhabited

and the car ride home again. And there– with the blood

still rushing back to your feet– the thought

floated in the dusty air that maybe it was all real

and that– as you sat fixed in your seat– the world outside

was changing too. And I miss the spring

in those hopeful strides– past the inviting depths of

the school night dusk where you can live

your new-learnt truths.

I can’t go there now, and perhaps its best that I can’t

because I don’t think I really miss the place;

I’m only chasing the enchanting glow

that’s drifting further into the haze. And the more I try

to pull it into view, the edges get softened by my clumsy

hands and failing wits.

But I still cup the flames of that feeling

of crossing the Galaxy bridge.