Railway Station and Other Poems

By Alan Ford

Railway Station

A platform littered with blurred faces
of half-remembered news
of departed days, like an old newspaper
left on an empty train.

There’s a waiting-room of forgotten names
of make-believe commuters
leaving imaginary footsteps
where unreal spirits tread.

On the dust ridden floor
lies the outline of a hobo.
Above it a torn curtain, a ragged
reminder of absent lives.

High above you will see a
leaking roof like tears for the missing,
leaving the wet hours to dry
what remains.

In the neglect outside
you will notice a rain-pitted track
as the hours drain away
gathering lost thoughts of
memories left to rust.

If you look through a broken
window you will see the shattered smile
of a stopped clock
where time now sleeps.
But there are no lighter moments,

only ill-lit desires of wasted history
that cannot recreate the past.

Lusitania

A submarine, a torpedo
a fatal plunge into the ocean.
No more tomorrows
God not present.

Love is drowning
hate has surfaced
indifference is floundering
for death can’t swim.

A child’s voice
not seen, just heard
a small scrap at sea
as a seagull squawks.

Faith is submerging
as a crucifix floats by
only Hope is baptized
with prayers unanswered.

Paying homage to wealth
as luxurious corpses sink.
Riches are no asset
as fool’s gold lies rusting.

A museum lies on the sea-bed
entry is free
the artefacts of life
are anchored by history.

A radio message bleeps.
World not speaking
nothing to say
death has no signal.

Statues

Is it art or politics
that make statues come to life?
A form of afterlife on a plinth.
Like dying twice.

Statues have history.
They are not neutral.
They represent our approval
but whose epitaph should we celebrate?

Effigies rely on peoples ignorance.
But who were they? Public benefactors
or private tyrants. It’s like looking at yesterdays
dark in today’s light.

Are they figures sculpted from old wrongs?
Highly polished versions of bygone days
that reflect a former gleam of glory.
But whose and why?

They are memorials to personal wealth and status.
Should we pay homage to almighty money?
Would that be like bestowing a kiss
in a nightmare?

If reputations are ruined should they
be restored? Can they be redeemed
by revealing displays
in public parks?

For time has conspired to delude us.
Celebrations of the past
can betray the present.
Yesterday’s birth, todays funeral.

So do we need to carry a
dead weight upon our past?
A hostile encounter, a posthumous demand
for dead ideas whose time has passed?