We stood in the old station yard. Waiting.
Around the disused buildings, swallows
slanted across the breeze, crossed the tracks
and wheeled away along the empty rails.
Butterflies, long-tailed tits, a bumble bee,
and an iridescent bug passed the
heavy-breasted hawthorn where we stood.
Paparazzi of a sort arrived;
like us, waiting for celebrity.
Coming as of nothing, you heard it first,
working hard against the gradient.
Then, with syncopated sound, smoke and steam,
the engine appeared, measuring the ground
between us — all orchestrated clatter
and history. And then it disappeared.
All too ephemeral. We left the
old station yard, and its butterflies,
to reclaim their quietude and restraint.