Along the platform to the far end
And one reaches the reading room;
Edged out in reminders of picture rails,
Any painting long been discarded
For fear of theft or vandalism;
So here in the, cell like, tar- macadam floor,
Bracketed struts of green wood
Supporting any takers,
Most simply shelter from the rain,
Cloistered behind newspapers.

Occasionally, a singular type,
Drops the day's gaze for the page in a book,
Forgetting the sounding of train times -
Departures and arrivals;
At least there is 'no-smoking'
And the area kept clear of *****,
Makes this place usually locked,
Apart from inconvenient times,
When resting would not be beneficial.

The windows drip a grey sludge,
But if you drift off
All this is side stepped for the beauty of the page,
The running with the wind on the
Train stop.

Love Mary ***