her son.
He'd dash to Totnes, then trundles casually
North
to, what may be known as, the back and beyond
of Scotland
The smooth sleek winding train yawns onto the
platform
inhaling from the platform his bags and bike to the
lock up.
Her thin lips, held tightly into a smile, quiver as she stands like a
statue.
The tick of the track signals its departure;
it toots.
The sniffling woman with whom his eyes
meet . . .
Three pigeons, disturbed by the train, flutter and
fly past.
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