Chris@rigdenage

York station

Morning
dawns crisp and cold;
light pours through the arches.
Time stands aside
as the train approaches
inflexibly
and words are drowned.
The engines throb
against the walls
that enclose me.

Your touch
finds a chink in my numbness -
and I walk home alone.

 

© Christine Rigden 1989

 


© 2015 Christine Rigden