Two days post Christmas, waiting
at what must be the coldest railway station in the uk
for a train to take us home.
The country under ice.
Roads points us frozen.
‘Thanks for the lift, Scott! No, please don’t wait, we’ll be fine!’
The train is delayed by one hour fifty.
The deserted platform stretches to infinity.
The ticket office has shut its shutters.
The empty waiting room has seats for fifty.
Close to the ceiling at either end is an electric heater.
No drinks machine.
The train is delayed by two hours fifty.
The landscape around us offers only flatness.
No buses or taxis.
The train is delayed by three hours twenty.
A plane takes off from the nearby RAF station.
Five hours late the train arrives.
I am in the wrong love affair.