A featured poem by Books Contributor Elizabeth Gibson (@Grizonne)
and I don’t know how long I have to wait for
the next train that will get me
where I want to be
and I remember I used to think this station was beautiful
because of all the lavender. It was wild,
I think I saw squirrels once,
scurrying about and vanishing into the scrub.
And the industrialism beyond that fence
seemed almost part of the charm
—it was a forgotten land, though people were here everyday
catching their train.
it is sunny, and the sky is blue,
all the colours are saturated; the pine with the pigeon nested in its bows
is a green so green you could dip a brush in and paint with it
like my cat’s eyes.
The pigeon flies off—it seems… inevitable. Yet while he was there it didn’t
seem possible that he could go.
I look for the lavender, remembering it as
foxgloves in my mind, and it’s there but the beauty isn’t.
It’s in the sun, and the colours,
and the sadness that one day I’ll want to come back to here, to today, to this scene.
Yet I can do nothing to make the most of being here but look, and yearn
for that green to somehow wedge itself in my mind
and never leave.
One day maybe the squirrels will come back,
one day maybe there’ll be foxgloves
like in the Lakes
or bees will buzz around the lavender
and I’ll pass through this passing place,
this ephemeral station
with its new entrance, whenever they finish it
and I’ll remember why I loved it once.
The passing place.
Place of beauty.
Place of peace.
Where I can wait for my train
and feel outside of time.
Wherever I want to be in my life,
I am here
with one purpose:
to wait for a train.
And I’m cold
but it’s beautiful here.