The platforms are flooded.
The train windows steam with
I draw a face.
Someone is talking on their mobile;
his daughter left home last night,
packed a suitcase,
went over to Dean’s.
She's always been independent, he says,
Too f*cking independent if you ask me.
She’s coming over tonight, he says,
so we can
iron out our differences.
I watch a cyclist
curving arcs of rain from under her wheels
as she charts the pavement
by the swollen canal.
Another train passes the other way,
sounding its horn,
making everybody jump.
The man on the phone says,
F*cking ‘ell, and carries on.
Streaks of high speed rain claw
their sodden fingers across my window
in diagonal lines.
The sky is a purpling bruise,
whacked by the back of August’s hand.
I watch the cows standing up,
putting up with it all,
the ambulances flashing on the flyover,
and the fields as green as spring.