In front of me is Lego Land,

red brick houses with windows

under slanted rooftops, looking

like sad faces staring back at me,

standing at a met station on a

Sunday afternoon in winter.

The desolate sky lies overhead.


Behind me is the wasteland,

the forgotten land, still waiting

for the forgotten school that

will never come, still harbouring

Pioneer Mills 1905, abandoned and

pointless for as long as I can remember,

like a once proud old man put out to pasture.


Along the platform we await

different journeys, wait

with different urgencies.

Two young mothers with two

crying babies, leaning on prams,

sending text messages.


Four teenage lads sit smoking,

one teenage lad stands boasting,

a man in a suit is pacing up and

down, checking his watch,

wiping sweat from his frown.


A calm man watches the pacing man

expressionless, motionless, with

digitised sound reverberating through

his ears. An old lady is stood on the edge,

staring down the track, solemly staring,

and I am behind her, my future waiting.

Forever waiting.


After eternity a met roars into the station,

and now all I see is a long seated line

of grey Mancunian countenances.




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