STATION

he didn't have a name


- or we didn't know it -
­just an old tramp
with the filthiest of clothes
who strayed from the
town centre at times
to the suburbs south
of the rail.

connoisseur of garbage
he'd follow the
pick-up schedule,
then disappear for weeks, to
shamble back no more tousled,
beard no longer or
less filthy.

picture of him crossing
the platform at Woolston,
the pattern of
hair on his stomach clearly
discernible through a
tattered shirt.

in his own world. if he
heard what a kid yelled
I cannot say.

TIME

the frame on her bed
reminiscent of a barge,
she handled the heavy
weather with an
equanimity lost on
the child.

blind, bed-ridden
for her last ten
years, the only time

I saw her outside
was standing in
the drive-way

literally smelling
the roses.


I walked on


knowing that
her white eyes

wouldn't see.
she was smiling
I recall. . .

I remember


wondering why.

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