dore

nicely rounding off some memories of Sheffield (and linking neatly back to problems with trains) i looked up on old poem buried somewhere underneath mounds of computer-printout paper (1990-style, green and white lines and perforated edge) and not yet committed to my database-off-all-things-meaningful.

Once i realised how time-consuming it was to get the national express coach for my (increasingly infrequent) trips between Sheffield and Liverpool/Manchester, i decided to bite the bullet and pay extra to travel by train. this was quite a hit on my finances, but did at least cut my travelling time from 5 hours to more like 2 and a half. still bad, but slightly less shocking.

for some reason the later trains back from Manchester always seemed to be the stopping service. this stopped everywhere it possibly could on the remote off-chance that someone may want to get on which, of course, they never did. all i could hope to do was to get some sleep and wake up once there (this was especially difficult because the rolling-stock consisted mainly of those incredibly uncomfortable buses-on-tracks that seemed to service local stations; all stiff-back seats and no leg-room). inevitably, and thankfully, i always seemed to wake up at the penultimate station, giving me hope at last that the journey was nearly over...

Dore

Shambling along at this vain pace
The non-stop service stops frequently.
I paid my dues yet sit in silence,
This lethargy eating into me.
Slowly slowly the scenery
Passes the uninterested eye,
To check the time is futile
Two minutes since I last looked by.

You'll be glad to know, she smiled at me,
The express service will take you home!
But seems such an age ago -
I should have known, I should have known.

Gazing into my reflection
Made stark by the winter night,
I realised the apathy
That becomes the journeyman's plight.
The train chugged ever onward -
Town after town after town,
I counted ten, eleven, twelve -
I must be near home by now!

But yes; lights ahead give hope,
A city, a city it has to be!
Could Sheffield, my second home
Be throwing pity upon me?
But If so, why are we slowing here
Miles from my destination?
Am I to be stranded here,
Alone at life's n'th station?

Oh! Now I recognise
The penultimate platform.
I know I'm barely a mile away
From home welcome and warm.
Here at the journeyman's second-last stop,
I'll wait and worry no more.
My destination lies ahead,
That is, once passed through Dore.


October 1992

the long and slow way round