Solitary Journey No. 1

The only one on the train,
after the burst of rain
beams punctured the clouds
the bluebells cluster by the wire fence,
in the undergrowth, there's nothing new,
the carriage groans offer no insight,
that sunlight upon the Ethiad
is the rack stretching the spine to snap
but all the diggers and trucks
(Who stops at Ardwick?)
are not the shadowy cut outs
of anything significant in this rhyme.

The platform appears,
into the golden haze of the station
I tread.