Ferguson, thirty years old

in his first floor room

pulls back the grey lace at the window.

Out there the railway yards

metal sinews etched in slag and rain

morose with burden

fretting in the disorderly queues of

 puffing and clanking engines.

 

He replaces the lace across the evenings' unwelcoming face.

 

On a good day he can watch cattle trucks

vegetables in crates. coal in silver sun heaps

and always the sulphur smell sickly with its yellow pallor.

 

Now though                        sleep beckons him

and the men are blending into night

with dark purpose.

Ferguson has used up the last of the day's promises

with a mood to match.....

a drizzle starts

dimpling the window.

 

He lies back on the bed with his shoes on

and listens to the hiss of the rain

and the drudgery of the yards.

                    -O-

 

Ferguson, seventy eight years old

stepped out to the supermarket

with its edgy cars compressed

and the trolleys, personal cages of produce

clamour and fuss where once the rails lay,

 a lost figure with his snails' pace.

 

The route back took him face to face with the window

now diamond UPVC

stunning white, no trace of sulphur

as it stared back through time.