The Railway Station

Neon lights outlined stalls in braids of red and green in the dim cavernous hall of the railway station. Muted drum taps of passing feet and crisscross talk were pierced by stabbing announcements of departing trains. A stairway tunneled upwards to the street where a wall of daylight met squinting eyes. Stonework still wore the soot of steam trains long silenced from impatient panting, their age had passed. My age was diesel with its fumes pumping out incessantly without pausing for a breath. Guttural piston beats pulsed the air with shudder. Some of us still left home riding dreams on train tracks or else sailed them to England on P&O. Most stayed at home and waited for the ballot. Out of step with the sixties the railway station languished in its nostalgic façade. Newspaper banners headlined protests and the Vietnam war. Through its ageing concourse young men moved in haste or haze towards uncertain destinations