Trainspotting

On Platform Riddles

In the soft hush between the sleepers’ sigh,
A weight‑bearing metal arc from London's heart,
Sculptures of steel whet the quiet city’s eye;
They clatter in the morning’s amber light,
A promise of journeys made in still, electric art.

The red‑lit signal, green at last, exhales a sigh,
A hiss of iron, the trundling, betraying soot,
Each rumble a stanza, a brief audible lullaby,
Revealing, in their polished chrome, a secret brought
From engine rooms deep to the country’s hidden dreams.

I sit on rough concrete, cup in one hand,
Watching the queue of locomotives glide across the square,
The InterCity’s silhouette, a rolling band,
Charting routes through valleys, beyond, through the air,
A pastime of stamps in a colour‑thin charter.

In every whistle, there is a ripple of laughter,
The patience of the watchmen, the rhythm of devotion,
A record of loops, a map that passes after—
The puzzle that draws the soul away to every nation,
In the forge of rails, England’s heart beats, there can be no betrayal.