Poetry Map of Scotland: poem no. 301

The Station

The beast arrives stealing the emptiness of the curving station,
hot breath,
rising steam,
wind, whispering secretly,
giving chase
stirring up sleep infused leaves
startled into wakefulness,
abruptly.
Gravity doesn't secure everything.
Discordant,
the quiet lifts bird like wings,
yellowed by the sun
throwing them at its evading form
converging in the dark of dusk
marrying night.
The moon hides behind clouds
gathering again
in a gray collage of the sky
assembling for prayers.
There's poetry in the snarl,
paws revving up the heart,
heat stoked action of the fuel
fingering ice in tunnels,
the slip, slap, slosh
quietly melting inside muscled pistons
ejecting the expired breath
as winter welcomes the beast
in the waiting emptiness of a station.

Shalini Pattabiraman

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