From the old stone bridge

he could see her,

barefoot, on a platform

no longer there.

Under a moonlit slither

something shimmered

in her slowly closing hand

Her head slowly rising

Her eyes locking on his

Somehow, her face so clear

despite the distance

Her hand snapped shut!

He could see a well

Dark & slick with black moss

A door

Smell a drift of whiskey

A train chugged

He was back on the bridge

The girl gone

Was she on the train?

Chugger, chugger, chugger

It fast approached!

He bent over stone 

Eyes straining to see

A whistle sounded

It billowed steam from its

gleaming head

Like some great

mechanical whale

His face damp & glistening

He runs to the other side…

 

There's only broken track

And the whispering

of a cold night wind

And, now,

he's thirty years older

And still he waits

As a  gentle snow 

begins to flutter

He turns to walk away

And yet, beneath his feet

Something vibrates 

The whispering wind

begins to mumble

And, Slowly

And breathlessly

he turns his head…