Spine-tingling railway sleepers Sleepy houses lying four-square and firm. Orange beams divide the darkness
Rumbling fit to turn the waking worm. Sliding through Victorian tunnels where green moss oozes from the pores. Dull echoes from the wet embankments Battlefield allotments. Fresh open sores.
In late night commuter madness Double-locked black briefcase on the floor, like a faithful dog with master sleeping in the draught beside the carriage door. To each Journeyman his own home-coming Cold supper nearing with each station stop. Frosty flakes on empty platforms Fireside slippers waiting. Flip. Flop.
Journeyman night-tripping on the late fantasic Too late to stop for tea at Gerard’s Cross and hear the soft shoes on the footbridge shuffle as the wheels turn biting on the midnight frost. On the late commuter special Carriage lights that flicker, fade and die Howling into hollow blackness Dusky diesel shudders in full cry. Down redundant morning papers Abandon crosswords with a cough Stationmaster in his wisdom told the guard to turn the heating off.
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