The platform clock counts out our wait; Its hands creep past the painted nine. A porter wheels a rattling crate Along the pale and yellow line.
Beyond the tracks, the grasses lean; A breeze lifts dust beside the wall. A pigeon crosses, grey and green, Then settles where the shadows fall.
The loudspeaker clears its crackling throat. A new arrival time is read. I fold my ticket with my coat And count the minutes still ahead.
Then rails begin a distant song; A light grows larger through the rain. Our quiet waiting stretches long, Then gathers speed beside the train.