| Spine-tingling railway sleepers
|
| Sleepy houses lying four-square and firm
|
| Orange beams divide the darkness
|
| Rumbling fit to turn the waking worm.
|
| Sliding through Victorian tunnels
|
| where green moss oozes from the pores.
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| Dull echoes from the wet embankments
|
| Battlefield allotments. |
| Fresh open sores.
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| In late night commuter madness
|
| Double-locked black briefcase on the floor
|
| like a faithful dog with master
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| sleeping in the draught beside the carriage door.
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| To each Journeyman his own home-coming
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| Cold supper nearing with each station stop
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| Frosty flakes on empty platforms
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| Fireside slippers waiting -- Flip. |
| Flop.
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| Journeyman night-tripping on the late fantasic
|
| Too late to stop for tea at Gerrards Cross
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| and hear the soft shoes on the footbridge shuffle
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| as the wheels turn biting on the midnight frost.
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| On the late commuter special
|
| Carriage lights that flicker, fade and die
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| Howling into hollow blackness
|
| Dusky diesel shudders in full cry
|
| Down redundant morning papers
|
| Abandon crosswords with a cough.
|
| Stationmaster in his wisdom
|
| told the guard to turn the heating off. |