every year she waits
same time, same place
you may catch her from the
corner of your eye,
out of place and alone,
always alone
fog descends
the time approaches
few passengers today
it’s not a busy line
no-one see the tears she cries
as she moves down the platform
vibrations on the cold rails
it’s coming, it’s coming...
fog parts as the engine pushes through -
the non-stop to Derby
she steps to the edge of the platform...
a scream on the wind
nothing more
un-mourned then...
un-mourned now
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