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'The Journey'

Sight.
Sound.
Smell.
Taste.

The trains,
the tracks,
the rush, the haste.

The sweeties and toffees,
newspapers and coffees,

Cases and bags, e-cigs and fags,
pasty and tanned, iphone in hand,

The people who come and the people who go
and the Taxis that wait, as you cannot be late -

Spill out men in their ties, College kids in tie-dyes,
end of termers returning to their seat of learning,

The screeching of brakes and the slamming of doors, 
from the ‘barely awakes’ and the ‘ready to go’s -

The good lucks and goodbyes, fears and tears in the eyes, 
and the hugs that don’t end and the texts that they’ll send,

The lovers, the losers, the shakers and movers, 
the gap-year beginners and ‘nothing to prove’rs 

step right into the mouth of the train as it stands, 
hoping this journey syncs with the ticket in hand -

to all points of the compass; South, West, East and North,
the disparate throng fast shuddering forth,

Frozen of face, their personal space.
typical of the human race.

Lost in the crowd, all heads bowed;
silent fears, screaming loud

Break out the ‘Hello’s -
and ban ‘Goodbye’

Journeys end


hovers,


nigh.


At the back of a drawer, unloved and unread
sat a crumbling folder, marked ‘Rhyme’
full of thoughts and retorts and scribbles and scrawls
which was added to when I had time.

The spring-cleaning bug hit, so I rolled up my sleeves
and determined to clear out the trash;
If only to fill my recycling bin 
and in no time I had quite a stash.

At this point, my dear wife, always willing to help
when it looks like I’m making a mess; 
offered tacit assistance to ‘clean up my piles’
I politely declined, more or less. 

For, ever methodical, I had arranged
in five or six stacks on the floor,
stuff to file and to shred, to hide under the bed  
or to mark ‘Confidential’ and more.

Soon the sorting was done, all my piles were now gone
and my shredder was giving off heat,
when I noticed my folder of rhymes had now gone
as I heard a voice cry “This is neat!”

Having carefully tiptoed her way through my clutter
a family friend saw my file;
leafing through it she stopped at ‘The Journey’
and her face grew a beautiful smile.

Modesty now prevents me from sharing her thoughts
as she made some attempt to disguise
her true feelings, though clearly touched by my words 
as she stood there with tears in her eyes.

Still sat on the floor, I decided right then
to fulfil my desire to write;
the rest, as they, was history when
I discovered this marvellous site.


With great respect to the incredible poem by WH Auden 'This Is The Night Mail' on which my piece is based.
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