The Last Stop

Coaches stream away, the masses depart
on the train bound for Glasgow, in an hour
or four, sweethearts due to meet,
relief on faces streaked with the week's effort,
weekend's reward the appearance of loved ones.

In a carriage soon I am moving,
small children swarming and newspapers rattling,
the events of past hours mottle consciousness
as the raindrops pattern the train windows,
snake downwards, and I attempt my exit.

The novel I'm reading speaks to my memory,
and the time chugs by and the stations of life
are reached, inevitably your image is reflected
everywhere I go, and in spite of me making
no attempt to hold onto you, you remain.

It is as though you are rooted
to the back of my retina, a system
of images as complex as the rail network,
and your home city always the last stop
on the trains on which I travel back and forth.

But my novel is engrossing, and soon
the memory of you has diminished again,
and by the time I'm sipping a pint
with friends, you are no longer there,
trapped out until the next time I take the train.