This month’s poem
Passing through was selected for display by Platform Poetry in October 2025. It appeared on the London-bound side of the Hertford Loop.
Passing through
We nod across our platforms. Our eyes meet.
We smile, search for signs, write our names
on the rails, play silent witnesses
to the weave and heave of strangers.
We alight the high step of our oncoming trains,
curl our breath on opposite windows.
We breathe in the blur, wave in the wiping away, live
in the magic of this high romance we are meant to be.
We will skip the pretence of a first date, a glass
of warm wine, a day in the park, the picnic,
the first kiss, the sweat of passion, the marriage bed,
the children, a girl, a boy, first and last.
The rails move, grind, chug and clear. The engine bleeds,
the whistle blows, phones beep, headlines loom.
Our eyes meet a present,
and live in our figment of our past.
We fly past different trees of green,
a whole lifetime of what-ifs, of falling blossoms
swallowed in red bricks, factories and flats.
We go beyond another world of autumn emptied fields
scorched dry of hellos and goodbyes.
March 2026
In the beginning …
He was slamming saucepans about in the kitchen. The dishwasher was full, and that always set him off. He had already lost it totally, setting up the website. “Sheila writes poetry. Sheila writes poetry. SHEILA WRITES POETRY.” She could hear the ranting from the lounge across the hall. Evidently, setting up a website for her was not his forte. Perhaps she should intervene, but it had all gone quiet. Tonight the stars were sparkling, the river was shining, and an orange sky spoke of a hot day tomorrow. She decided she would leave him to it; hope he did not break anything as he punched the keys. Low muttering was all she heard as she closed the door softly. “Not tonight, Josephine!” The muttering increased “Not tonight, Josephine!” to a crescendo. “NOT TONIGHT JOSEPHINE!” He was best left alone when he was like this. Tomorrow the river would still shine, whatever the sky said.