St Pancras Station
By mark_yelland-brown
- 33 reads
She stands huge, a dinosaur whose structure at this hour is far too monumental to comprehend.
History is seeping from every rusty bolt
like ether permeating clothing and skin.
We maybe traveling
with future encounters anticipated
with their respective emotional consequences
but for one moment I feel merged
with her past.
While I sit and wait she takes me into her timeless dream;
there is bustle yes;
porters all at once cheerful
doffing caps to impatient ladies and gentlemen and their entourages.
There is a mass of movement, barrows, fruit sellers, flower sellers,
the poor,
thank Dickens for that.
Looking up
the pigeons a paradigm away
are still roosting
only a few bobbing
for something more tangible than this fancy.
She finally arrives and the dream dissolves;
this is an old station with its own history,
I belong somewhere half an hour away
with a history to create.
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