Journeyman
Spine-tingling railway sleepersSleepy houses lying four-square and firm.Orange beams divide the darknessRumbling fit to turn the waking worm.
Sliding through Victorian tunnelsWhere green moss oozes from the pores.Dull echoes from the wet embankments,Battlefield allotments, fresh open sores.
In late night commuter madnessDouble-locked black briefcase on the floor,Like a faithful dog with masterSleeping in the draught beside the carriage door.
To each Journeyman his own home-coming,Cold supper nearing with each station stop.Frosty flakes on empty platforms,Fireside slippers waiting. Flip. Flop.
Journeyman night-tripping on the late fantastic,Too late to stop for tea at Gerard's CrossAnd hear the soft shoes on the footbridge shuffleAs the wheels turn biting on the midnight frost.
On the late commuter specialCarriage lights that flicker, fade and die.Howling into hollow blacknessDusky diesel shudders in full cry.
Down redundant morning papers,Abandon crosswords with a cough.Stationmaster in his wisdomTold the guard to turn the heating off.
Journeyman night-tripping on the late fantastic,Too late to stop for tea at Gerard's CrossAnd hear the soft shoes on the footbridge shuffleAs the wheels turn biting on the midnight frost.