Yes. I remember Stroud Station –
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat, the express-train broke down there
Unwontedly. It was late June.
My phone broke. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left in the ticket office
Or the bare platform. What I saw
Was Stroud Station – only the name
And no one, no one there, no staff,
Just a broken-down ticket machine
And my broken phone where I swear
And stare at the rain clouds in the air.
And for that minute a revenant cried,
Close by, and around him, mistier
Farther and farther, all passengers
In Stroud’s Five Valleys in Gloucestershire.
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