It's All Been Rather Lovely

There he sits,

grey-coated and haired,

like a favourite uncle

sculpted from memory,

less apparition than heirloom or relic:

a stolid fixture in a world of flux;

a faded brilliantine post-war consensus;

a fusty installation;

a mise en scène.

There he sits,

lodged, like a trunk,

in the gloss-hardened air

of a sun-darkened room,

where the tannoy tryst

of comings and goings

yokes time to the tracks

and space to the sacred pause,

where journeys begin or

coast towards their end.

Embalmed, he sits,

in the permafrost halls

of directionless time, warmed

by the undimmed glow

of a brief encounter:

an after-school audience

with our own Uncle Arthur,

in a waiting room on a platform

where the London line forks.

Homebound towards Ramsgate.

April 2014