Line-side fire at Purley
by John Heffer, Tripoli, Libya
Blue-blurred buddleias sway, and sickly-red crabwort inch
Between platform cracks.
Spring-hot sunshine: East Croydon.
Train-bound commuters groan under their breath at the tannoyed delay.
A line-side fire at Purley.
Businessmen reach for their mobile phones; Child-weary mothers sign;
Doe-eyed lovers curl closer.
Cheek pressed cold against the carriage window, I wonder,
Was this excitement brought to flame by holiday-bored teenagers amongst the rail-strewn debris?
An electrical cable past its current capability, sputtering like a fuse?
A careless cigarette, or 10,000 volt sparks arching into sun-scorched weeds?
A mischievous thunderbolt sent by Zeus on a quiet afternoon to
amuse the gods on snow-caped Olympus.
Still waiting at the platform, the train seems infinitely patient:
In Zen repose.
The human cargo is not so sure.
Some walk purposefully up and down the carriages; doors open and slam.
I think about getting, then look up.
And across the mirrored-side of an office block, clouds move slowly through an azure sky.
"Beautiful technology" whispers a grey-haired lady beside
me as she stares intently at the clouds' refection.
I smile and umm in agreement.
And I realise that in my hurried existence, where each minute
Requires momentum to impel it to the next,
That only stations passed define my life,
And I need more line-side fires at Purley.
