The clacking of the rails is premonition
like the chatter of angry starlings
low whine in the distance of a barely felt
anxiety about the possibility of pain
hot rush of air lifts strands of hair
approach sweeping away doubt
white lights appearing in the tunnel
are the eyes of the angel of death
the squealing redgrey dragon
arrives to speed you into night
My empty train crawls through Kings Cross
pauses for a heart-beat at the deserted platform.
Ghost faces peer into my carriage, clamouring
for seats, try to prise the door.
I cannot meet their eyes. Dip my head.
The conference hall hums like a hive.
We harvest our noise, rounding it up
like naughty children or a huge dog
on a leash. A thousand voices
movements hushed, our thoughts rise
as smoke and gather in the rare, still air.
Silence is all we have to offer.
If you've any comments on this poem, Maggie Butt would be pleased to hear from you.