Starting at the darkness outside the window. the brightness of the rain carriage creating mirrors of darkness out of the glass, a tired slightly drunk girl looking back at me.
A silent empty carriage no passengers but my self sitting travelling.
The beep of the intercom with no message. The sudden slowing as we pull out of the night in to the brightly li station. with the siding doors opening some get off and some get on, girls dressed up in dresses and and half the make up counter of Debenhams on their face, Boys in track sues and to much links. Not enough to to empty and not enough to fill the slow moving train heading back to the city
As we pull out form the station, a place of bright light in this alien place of vast darkness in this wilderness of the country side.
Looking deep into the blackened glass at the pitch black night with its moving silhouettes of trees and bushes and power polls.
The bright white moon moves every so slowly higher through the heavens. The cloudless night, cold and with stars like random diamonds stitched for eternity on the blue black silk of the night sky. If you look close enough, you can even make out the face upon the moon.
Yellow and withe spots of light stretch out of depths of stillness, growing closer making the motorway that soon will tack flight over the train lines and touching ground, twisting and tuning vanishing into the night, visible.
Suddenly from no where an explosion of gold and silver in-lights the the darkness of the sky, slowly falling. The cascading gold disappears in to the night.
Before long the sky begins to become alight with red, and green, gold and silver diamonds. silent explosions of enjoyment colour on this cold November night.
Yet all I can do is sit and gaze at the excitement in the sky.
Wrapped up warm in fingerless gloves, hat, scarf and coat. the smell of burning wood on the chinnery. Burgers on the Bar’B’Q the smell of burnt sulphur from fireworks in the air.
A sparkler in each hand writing names in the air.
The feeling within your chest of the exploding colours in the sky.
Another burger, more chips and squash. Another beer and glass of wine for the grow ups.
Childhood memories, remembered in each diamond cascade.
Lights of dazzling white reach high on the silk sky toped with red blinking waning light like a light house in the middle of the city. A warning for the sailing ships of the air.
I look up and down the carriage of what seams to be a ghost train absent of any other passengers.
Destination somewhere. calling at all stations, including grief, depression, missed opportunities, forbidden love and a bad hair day.
Cannery wharf, for all those who commute and travel to London regularly it is a monument, a sign that they are now in Centre of the country. The home of the Bank on England, the monarchy. A city that all of those that travel far and wide to see think is spectacular For those who live within the boundaries of he London postal codes, is home, its hell, with the rude tourist, and un appreciating rich snobs.
Pulling in to the station its mixture of old and new architecture, lights ass bright as day. With a deep breathe I step from the train to the platform, an unexpected emptiness for six pm on a week day. I head to the steps to the tunnel beneath the tracks leading to the exit.
burning torches out front of the hotel a strange warmth feeds down to the pavement. The food van outside the underground still serving. The smell of onions frying drawing in hungry suits, and tourists. A slow moving crowd moves towards the stations to head home.
for a moment i go with the flow then stop and turn and decide to walk.
Fields of red, a flowing tide encircles the ancient stone walls of a prison and fort. Lit from above and lit form below the shadows of each of the fallen cast upon the stone. Flashes of light capturing the image to say I was here, that I saw.
A flash in the sky of falling crystal, dancing reflections off glass buildings of black mirror.
Heading in to the ground, the rattling nose of the steel cars and electric buzzing as the underground transport moves to a stop.
Uncomfortable blue covered seats and discarded free papers and magazines, left for the next user to read.
I pull from my bag my blue note pad opening it to the next blank page makes with is matching blue ribbon, pen in hand I began to write shakily on the rattling ride home.
A silent empty carriage no passengers but my self sitting travelling.
The beep of the intercom with no message. The sudden slowing as we pull out of the night in to the brightly li station. with the siding doors opening some get off and some get on, girls dressed up in dresses and and half the make up counter of Debenhams on their face, Boys in track sues and to much links. Not enough to to empty and not enough to fill the slow moving train heading back to the city
As we pull out form the station, a place of bright light in this alien place of vast darkness in this wilderness of the country side.
Looking deep into the blackened glass at the pitch black night with its moving silhouettes of trees and bushes and power polls.
The bright white moon moves every so slowly higher through the heavens. The cloudless night, cold and with stars like random diamonds stitched for eternity on the blue black silk of the night sky. If you look close enough, you can even make out the face upon the moon.
Yellow and withe spots of light stretch out of depths of stillness, growing closer making the motorway that soon will tack flight over the train lines and touching ground, twisting and tuning vanishing into the night, visible.
Suddenly from no where an explosion of gold and silver in-lights the the darkness of the sky, slowly falling. The cascading gold disappears in to the night.
Before long the sky begins to become alight with red, and green, gold and silver diamonds. silent explosions of enjoyment colour on this cold November night.
Yet all I can do is sit and gaze at the excitement in the sky.
A sparkler in each hand writing names in the air.
The feeling within your chest of the exploding colours in the sky.
Another burger, more chips and squash. Another beer and glass of wine for the grow ups.
Childhood memories, remembered in each diamond cascade.
I look up and down the carriage of what seams to be a ghost train absent of any other passengers.
Destination somewhere. calling at all stations, including grief, depression, missed opportunities, forbidden love and a bad hair day.
Cannery wharf, for all those who commute and travel to London regularly it is a monument, a sign that they are now in Centre of the country. The home of the Bank on England, the monarchy. A city that all of those that travel far and wide to see think is spectacular For those who live within the boundaries of he London postal codes, is home, its hell, with the rude tourist, and un appreciating rich snobs.
Pulling in to the station its mixture of old and new architecture, lights ass bright as day. With a deep breathe I step from the train to the platform, an unexpected emptiness for six pm on a week day. I head to the steps to the tunnel beneath the tracks leading to the exit.
burning torches out front of the hotel a strange warmth feeds down to the pavement. The food van outside the underground still serving. The smell of onions frying drawing in hungry suits, and tourists. A slow moving crowd moves towards the stations to head home.
for a moment i go with the flow then stop and turn and decide to walk.
Fields of red, a flowing tide encircles the ancient stone walls of a prison and fort. Lit from above and lit form below the shadows of each of the fallen cast upon the stone. Flashes of light capturing the image to say I was here, that I saw.
A flash in the sky of falling crystal, dancing reflections off glass buildings of black mirror.
Heading in to the ground, the rattling nose of the steel cars and electric buzzing as the underground transport moves to a stop.
Uncomfortable blue covered seats and discarded free papers and magazines, left for the next user to read.
I pull from my bag my blue note pad opening it to the next blank page makes with is matching blue ribbon, pen in hand I began to write shakily on the rattling ride home.
© sarah jane patel
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