Winter rain stains fading signs,
scours trackless shunting-yards and hones
edges on a wind that whines
beneath the station ’s peeling eaves.
But once, a middle age away,
those ruins marked the final stage
of journeys home.
Though rain and wind spray weed-ringed walls
and set the rusted gutters streaming
down the flaking paint and pall
the slag-grey day, this waste-land seems
to host bright ghosts for those who’ve seen
faint rainbows in the misting steam
of engines’ breathing.