Down the Line
In the silence before the train
she stands on the unsheltered platform,
her mind brittle as porcelain,
nerves tight as a fist.
…………In a shoulderbag,
…………amongst all her scented things,
…………there are memories
…………of unclouded summers,
…………of nights loud with fairground noise,
…………a jukebox throbbing
…………its catchcries of love,
…………the air heavy with cigarette smoke,
…………the smell of oil and sweat,
…………freckled weather
…………when she walked the prom,
…………a tang of seaweed on her skin,
…………slim as an hourglass,
…………bright as a fallen angel.
She straightens her back
and the world moves under her
as the train grinds its teeth
and fists its way
into the station.
…………In another town down the line
…………there's a man
…………who'll comb the grey from her hair,
…………who'll keep the heaviness of time
…………from her mind, and from her waist,
…………a man she's never met
…………who'll slow her violent heartbeat.
by Louis De Paor
from Clapping in the Cemetary
publisher: Cló Iar-Chonnachta, Indreabhàn, 2005