Things and people we did and did not see waiting for a train at Woodgrange Station 10th August 2024 (Written while under the influence of Dante’s Divine Comedy and Anne Carson)

The Poet: 
Pointing upwards like a dead witch’s finger 
Accusing sunlit clouds of hiding heaven, 
A crane 
Suspended in
The sky. 

Time ticking forward in orange -
The platform’s electronic oracle. 

Men sat on benches, 
Bags branded 
On backs and under eyes  
Tortured
And
Spellbound
By shiny mobile phones.  

I saw
No women
Or children 
Recall them to
Their journey’s purpose 
But wonder if
Love’s memory 
Did not glisten there,
The last drop of morning dew clinging 
Unnoticed 
To a bedraggled hanging basket plant, 
Unwatered for too long, 
Parched now and  
Dying - 
Thirsty leaves dream of rain.  

Are we already in hell? 
Should we abandon hope? 

No.  This poem is not finished yet. 

I still need to fit in 
The odd one out -
The older man 
His glasses’ lenses thick and scratched
His skin collapsing face 
In folds - 
I see him still 
His shoulders rise and fall 
Another Roman Empire
Veni vidi vici
With each exhale. 
A purple shopping trolley bears
His precious cargo 
Comprising what exactly?
Pray tell!

Reader 1: 
I am no doctor but
I think I spy
A nearly broken heart 
And maybe something else I can’t quite make out - 
Perhaps it’s 
…hang on, no 
Is that what I…? 

Reader 2: 
Yes! Yes! It is. 
I am sure.
And maybe there is always 
Something more.
Look! Do you see
Right at the bottom 
Of his bag with wheels?
A miracle of sorts,
If I can call it that. 
Could it be that this man is
God almighty 
Here to save us all?

Reader 1: 
In my mind’s eye, I believe I see

Reader 2: 
Or Descartes’ demon deceives both you 
and me - 

Reader 1 and 2 in unison: 
A metal watering can 
Bent out of shape  
A rusty, faded green.
And now we see him reach inside     (The poet, as older man, acts out the words, picking up watering can etc..). 
And pick it up 
And walk, his body now 
All straight 
And loose
And proud 
And with perfect tenderness 
(Loves’ sunshine breaking clouds
And piercing hearts)
He pours fresh water     (The poet, as plant, assumes sagging posture, maybe comical plant hat)
Onto the plant -                               
Pat
Pitter 
Pat! -
Sagging leaves 
Sigh 

Poet: 
‘Thankyou!’

Readers 1 and 2 in unison again: 
And start to
Breathe.                  (Poet stands upright, no longer sagging, breathes into mic).