The man on the early train sees the sun rise
Arthritic, and slant a few fine squints of watery light towards him
Along the dusty surface of an end-of-October landscape
It conjures this picture: of an old man, crumpled fingers
Clutching the edge of a hospital table, puckering the cloth
His mouth hangs open
And he's waiting for the nurse to bring him food
He hunches, head hung between his shoulders just above table level
And he is what he seems to be: a sun on its horizon
There's a familiar noise in the distance
The old man tries to remember what causes it, and tries to place it
It moves slowly across the far side of the tablecloth
He stares after it through watery eyes
The cutlery, cups and pots become industrial structures under his failing gaze
The creases in the cloth form divisions: walls, roads, hedges...
And he now knows what that noise is; it's a train
As a child, he'd stir in bed after dawn
And hear it hammer down the valley with its load of post, papers and early risers
Now, the table-top train thunders along the rim of his vision
All those years ago, as a child
He'd have leapt out from under warm blankets
Onto the cold shock of polished floor
Padded across bare boards to the window
And watched it go – steam then, diesel now – sailing away
He might even (Leaning in blue-and-white pyjamas
Over the sill and into the icy air)
Have been seen by the man on board
So the two of them would watch while the rising sun struggled
Ancient and open-mouthed, groping forward
With spidery fingers of light across a misted landscape
That had become the vast spread of time
Between the one person who was all three...
Child, commuter and old man