A Wrong Turn

King's Cross

This rain-stained station soaks away our tears

like the cracked field where three red flowers dance,

that bed of chalk-crumbled soil, parched and gasping

for the last fall of summer or autumn storms.

So much happiness and so many sad departing moments locked

beneath the soaring arches of time-cracked iron and sooted glass,

a vault of secret stories, written in

eyes, kisses and the clasp of hands -across the span of years.

There, then not, snatched from our narrative by

the grey tales we can still abandon, 

we let our skies bleed their colour to night

and, in this space of trains and loss, believe

new stories will be told.