Shuffling souls at Watford Junction

Shoe after shoe shuffles in the shifting train –

black soles, random souls,

dust catches winter thoughts

and, in the window, birds melt away.


Eye after eye die in the internet

mixing flesh with steel,

stillness of humans in the machine

like Millais’ Ophelia is reflected in the

canals of Watford Junction.


Empty balconies greet the train

with exotic plants and sleeping bicycles

that haven’t touched the Earth in months.


Canal boats, like alien spaceships,

gently rock to the sound of dog walkers

and horses, grey like the sky, are wearing winter warmers.


Little children are taking a walk and,

like true Gods, they see it all –

the passengers with hollow eyes,

balconies that dream of sea,

bicycles that fly in their thoughts,

and horses without Gypsies.