Level Crossing

Impatient, fuming lines converge
needlessly it would seem.
Each trunk lovingly coiled
around the tail of the beast ahead.

The silky sheen of a blackbird
tunnels under the barrier,
ticking over the tracks
like a mindless mechanical toy.

A jogger – all aspiration and perspiration-
simmers at the gate.
Steaming like a thoroughbred
before the first fence.

Yet the train which serves only cups of ageing,
from which we cannot alight.
Hurtles to a station
were all services terminate.

It calls at Joy, Grief and Love.
Where the first time traveller
nervously shuffles
from foot to foot.

But a fist gripping a hard iron lever
in a white lapboard shed,
raises the rails skyward
to a precarious vertical plane.