At the station, 02/01/2012

by Matthew Walpole

Dawn. A melting sun.
The town silent and still.

So cold, so white

fresh as ice
on a lake;

the playground,
the old church and yard

so still, so fresh.

Breath steams from my frozen lips
the faintest tremor of air;

you can hear a leaf
drip.

Margins blur,
a blue twinkling of dust

the last star shivers out.

I watch it, I watch it go
I watch it return to the void.

Gone, now
sunk in the blue

the steel rails gently hum…