WAITING FOR THE NIGHT TRAIN

As though time were a grain, I am young again

Waiting on a bridge for a Swanage train

Waiting agog under a black quilted sky

On a narrow country lane, where above me the sigh

Of whispering trees stirred by a lazy breeze

Spawn madcap bats made of tattered top-hats

While an unseen owl hoots its lonesome refrain

To the hushed rasp of crickets…

But as yet no train

With telegraph wires humming, which the breeze likes strumming

Where soon will a night train be hissing and drumming

Here glow-worms like spangles cast specks of queer light

And sweet distant Swanage make a similar sight

Its streetlamps too shy to offend the sky

I listen with arms now as goose-bump farms

And with my trousers besmirched by a bicycle chain

I gaze at dark hills and wait and wait…

But as yet no train