New Brighton Station

 

The grey scale Welsh Mountains

Punctuate the horizon with minute peaks

Just visible as the train pulls out

Of New Bighton Station.

Far off, below the peaks,

Where the land rolls into water

The wind along the Menai Straits

Whipping in from the Irish Sea

Round Anglesea and Great Orme's head

Plays a Celtic hymn of longing and returning

And calls for me to return there

To renew my memories.

My fathers ghost

Trapped in the carriage window,

Smiles, and gazes back

It reminds me how fragile life can be.

"Hello," I said, and he mouthed the same

Sea scented air gusts in through open windows

As the train slows for Wallasey Village

I should be going to Liverpool

But today the call of home is too inviting

I get off the train

And stroll back laden down

With memories.

 

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