Thursday, 4 February 2016

The Train Ride

Trains pass my flat but I never get on them. From Penzance to London. At night I see the lighted windows, empty seats and the buffet car.
I thought I would use them as a marker of time, but they appear at random – there are too many.
So I am a voyeur. I watch other people’s journeys. I imagine their stories.  Change at Bristol Temple Meads. No interpersonal connections.
Agatha Christie -  the cast assembled in 1930s plush velvet, faded wall lamps of pink silk and Hercule Poirot stirring his chocolate. James Bond on the roof grappling with a villain.  Robbers in the mail car. Perhaps they will glimpse the scrap of red material waved by three children long ago.
A faint smell of oil, there’s a rhythm about it.
Where’s the romance now – a meal deal in the buffet car.

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