On a deserted platform
tumbleweed trains
no longer come
a sign creaks and groans
—
the waiting room windows
cracked and misted
no more voices
only the ghosts and echoes
—
they took the tracks
for scrap iron
no whistles strident
the barrier now, always down
—
In the corner
a brown paper bag
pulled tight
to hold his words
—
The last ones he ever spoke to her
—
Wrapped up with a bow
and secreted under the sill
a ticket office
and the faint smell of piss
—
1664 say the cans
bent and broken
empty Rizzla packets
at old Holborn
—
Was it that long ago?
—
a bent and crippled teaspoon
The Times, part charred
and silver paper swans
they swim in the debris
—
In the corner
a brown paper bag
pulled tight
to hold his words
—
The last ones he ever spoke to her
—
In the Tardis of time
his name now taboo
no one dare ask
the name, Dr Who?
—
days become months
and merge into years
soon only a whisper
washed in the tears
—
In the corner
a brown paper bag
pulled tight
to hold his words
—
The last ones he ever spoke to her
—
The rain bells its toll
and the moss takes a bite
the paper gets thinner
and fades in the light
—
sagging and crumpled
now wet to the core
knowing that he is
no longer a part, of the lore
—
written in daisies
that chained up his heart
eternity keeps them
forever apart
—
In the corner
a brown paper bag
…… …..
.. …. … …..
The last ones he ever spoke to her
Traou an Dour 