Girl on a Train

He had got on the train at New Street,

Found an empty carriage spare,

And settled down with the paper

With not one to disturb him there,

But the train pulled in at Sandwell

And the carriage door slid wide,

And in there walked a pair of heels

With a dimple and hips beside.

 

She sat on the seat across from him

And laid her bag on the seat,

Kicked her shoes on the floor, so he

Could see her pretty feet,

He tried to look at his paper but

The print got up and walked,

Up from her ankles to her calfs

And he found it hard to talk.

 

‘How do you do,’ was banal but

That’s all that came to mind,

She briefly looked from her knitting, and

He thought that her eyes were kind,

But never a word would pass those lips

She had the slightest pout,

And her needles clicked to the railway clack

As his mouth was drying out.

 

He’d bought some fruit in the Bullring

So he thought he’d have some there,

And at different times he offered her

An apple, peach or a pear,

But she shook her head so slightly and

Politely, in disdain,

As if the thought of a stranger’s fruit

From a man in a suit, might stain.

 

The train chuffed on through Wolverhampton

While he drank a Coke,

He knew that his time was limited

For she’d get off at Stoke,

He offered to put the window down

But she said it blew her hair,

Then he offered his name as Paul, but she

Was not inclined to share.

 

She crossed her legs and she hitched her skirt

Just slightly above her knees,

While his eyes looked up to the luggage rack,

Was this some sort of tease?

Her knitting needles were clicking away

Was she knitting some sort of sack?

It seemed like she was racing the train

Ahead of its clickety-clack.

 

The train went racing to Stafford,

In and out, but it passed so fast,

He said, ‘We’re almost at Stoke, that’s where

We’ll both get out, I guess?

There’s quite a nice little café

Down by the station in the square,

I’d like to buy you a coffee, if you want

I’ll shout you there.’

 

She stopped, and packed up her knitting

Tucked it carefully in her bag,

And said, ‘You must be Australian,

And coming here, so sad.

I’ve never been ‘shouted’ a drink before

But I think you’re rather nice,

I’ll let you know that you’re past first base

On your way to Paradise!’

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Barbz]

This vision of loveliness, caught his eye upon a train. No wonder words on paper, blurred, although, written plain. Offerings of fruit or stuff, seemed just not to fit. Wonder what was on Her mind, I don't think her knit. We know when time is limited, it's best to make your move. To find your minds on the same track, it just goes to prove. There is no special time or place, a coffee spot is nice. A sip, a tip, two hearts that fit, could lead to Paradise.........Barbz

[emmajoy]

What's the matter with all those people who looked in and didn't leave a comment.. good grief, Charlie Brown!

As always, David (must think of another start for your fine creations) you write with amazing metre, don't know how you do it, time after time after time.. but then, just to make me shake in my Peruvian slipper socks.. you tell such a glorious tale.! As to the ending.. clever stuff, a wonderful ending - Paradise-on-Stoke, huh! And fancy the woman recognising a Welsh-Australian accent!