Grey seat backs like funny stiff people, their little grey arms sticking straight out in front. The sound of the heating system blowing hot air into the train. Men in hi vis work on the new parts of the station, walk slowly, work slowly, as if they mustn't get it done too soon. Two men are building a grey wall, the wind gently rippling the backs of their luminous orange tabards. One sits on a crate to work. And a yellow tram passes. The sky is grey to match the dull grey breeze blocks the wall is made of. Rain threatens.
Slender silver birches bend beside the railway line
their small leaves lemon yellow, one or two still green.
A green slope, a brick bridge,
more silver birches, a grey corrugated warehouse,
a tall pylon towers over horses in a field.
A row of semis, a field of sheep,
a pool surrounded by tufted clumps of marsh grass,
a church with a pointed spire with a cross on top
and a clock that says half past one.
A factory chimney with the word ARROW in white letters near the top,
pallets stacked in a warehouse yard,
B&Q, a car park, streets of terraced houses and
we're at Rochdale; a park, a children's playground,
and Haji Cash & Carry est 1955
and the Catholic church that at first glance
looks like a mosque until you clock the cross
on top of its white dome....
and the hills, concrete silos, plumbing trade supplies,
a large blue and silver graffiti tag on a brick wall,
the dark line of the hills beyond all this,
and we in the bowl whose rim they form,
a bowl of fields, horses, houses...
and Littleborough Co-op and the church on the corner
where I used to see all the funeral flowers
lined up along the wall, as I waited at the red light
to turn right, then right again
and up the hill to therapy.
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