elizabeth-gibson
5th February 2016

Salford Crescent

A featured poem by Books Contributor Elizabeth Gibson (@Grizonne)

It’s cold

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.

Today

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.


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