Catching my short breath,
I climb aboard the late train, contented.
Windows sheathed in track-grime
give the platform lamps a dappled curiosity, rain-streaks autograph
the panes like graffiti.
Posters for theatres
and vacuous novels about honeymoons
provide an unwanted time-setting.
Echoes of urgent calls to dawdling friends
fill the carriage from both ends.
Three whistles.
Doors squeak rubbery shut, a draught squeezes through nonetheless.
The train departs in reverse,
annoying those who chose to face the wrong way.
Unlike previous journeys, the crowd is subdued;
no maniacal laughter or half-remembered shanty.
Over the black Tyne and south.
Fifteen minutes home;
the Durham vista welcoming its returning son.
