Bridget Hobbs
Berwick Station at night
Only the old stopping train tells me
when to get up and open the door.
A young man follows, already
the giver of unwanted attention.
We sway together before the train finally halts.
The station’s closed and empty
expecting only to be passed by.
The rain’s hard and dark.
There’s a small gate to a small car-park.
I walk like a boxer, like a dyke
until the man recedes into his own small car.
I wait for my lift, my back to the night.
A dogging wind slobbers at my coat.
One station notched here on a rail;
one light on a chain of dimming lights
stretched right down to the sea.
Around dark houses sit with their own significance.
The sky doesn’t change.
My own headlights take a long time coming.
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