Central Station

Iron Road


Winifred G Birkett

And now we part not with fond, lingering feet
Pathetic on the understanding sod;
Not with eyes turning on the way we trod,
Or last, slow word to make it faintly sweet,
But in the meantime nightmare of this place
Your very hand meets mine abstractly;
Through hateful surges of humanity
My eyes must vainly seek to read your face.
I hear you talk of luggage, fares, and tips;
Share with a porter priceless shreds of time,
Trapped in this harsh and careless pantomime
And thinking only of your curving lips….
The train slides out, and so I see you speed,
Smiling uncertainly behind a stranger’s head.

The Railway Issue 1929