Kirkgate Station,Wakefield

Corteged coffin-like
commuter trains call
at Kirkgate,where
from unwashed windows,
faces tight as
drawn curtains,gaze out
at the snow lying
thick as mattresses
over the gap-toothed pavement,
hiding its treasure trove
of detritus,origin unknown;
A funereal sky,
certain of its purpose
snares and guts expectations
of the lacklustre kind,
the kind that carries
shoehorned stick-figures
scurrying across washed-out
vistas endlessly reflected mirror
within mirror,within mirror,
as the day progresses,
snow deepens and optimism
is put back in the
cupboard alongside
rarely seen rainbows.

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