(Change for Clare and Spalding Lines)
Summer 1938

I’ll wait inside —
it ’s cooler here behind the grating
flip-flap of the half-wire doors and in between
the glass and varnish. Here, where flaking
cakes dry quietly and desiccating
lamingtons moult coconut, near tea-steam,
towel-shrouded china glistens
thick-lipped and S.A.R.-ed. And waiting
near the swing-door-interrupted kitchen-sounds
and Victor Harbour views I’ll listen
to the rings of beads around
the milk jug covers tinkle, thinly. Now

it ’s almost time
in Latin where a pendulum is swinging
like a shunter’s lantern. Signaled seconds veil
themselves and re-emerge through vapour ringing
port-holed kitchen doors and murmuring urns.
The bubbling begins. The room exhales
Bushells, pasties and the warm brown
Acorn smell of floors. Ill wait where air turns
slowly clockwise as the fan blades spin
the steam thin. Any moment now
the Ten-eight Up will bring
the mail-bags, churns and morning gourmets in.

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