The crowds take up their positions
on the swept clean concourse
of Lime Street Station, the ballet, the rumba,
the strains of the Viennese Waltz ,
the mad dash of front seated desire, four seats
and small squeezed in table,
the clock
high upon the wall and dominant,
the band master ready to blow the whistle
and the dance begins;
slowly at first, hesitant to let go of the one they love
and who will love them till they get home, the dance forgotten
in a heartbeat of half remembered waves goodbye
through smoke and tears on the platform edge.
The waltz, the side step of passenger in tandem,
till one breaks loose and in the midst of ordered chaos
and sat on backsides watching the world go by, tea cooling
in the winter breeze as doors open and close as players
leave the scene
as a young teenager falls in love over and over again
at the sight of pretty girls in dark tights, the music
in his head, only just heard above his mother’s
frantic calls from the sidelines to her daughter
in a faraway land
crying over her love no longer able to waltz,
is rapidly cooled and heated, the quick
step in his mind, the tango
shuffle of awkwardness and shy disposition
forgotten in the gallantry of imagined
conquest, the swoon of the leading lady,
her smile winning all awards in best picture category
and hiding a secret love for her school friend,
the gossip columns all ready
and the photographers calling out with flash
bulbs popping and being scattered upon
Lime Street Station floor.
The city woman, living
constantly between platform 7,
a sweat of perspiration, healthy glow,
and the train that takes her away
and brings her back by ten each night,
weaves around the family of six
with screaming dad, nervous
of missing the train out for the day,
only five tickets in hand, forgetting he
has also got a wife in tow,
weaving beyond and around
the football fan, Everton away,
Liverpool at home,
Tranmere across the water,
scarf pulled round his neck,
match day not till Saturday
but she likes to remind people
of her allegiance,
as she glides past sequins
of memorabilia badges
of victories in Europe
and the train guard
having had to detain
the person without a ticket,
caught out by sitting in the loo
just too long, trudges in despair
through the glow of the dance;
the rotten soul forever making his life a misery.
Coffee cups of polystyrene littered forests
the dust cart and the hearty smile of the
young woman with snakes back home,
her black hair, lacquered,
greets the passengers before she has had time
to open her mouth
and tell them mind the step,
mind the beat of the dance
in this cultured paradise,
a Lime Street station serenade, the waltz
of the everyday, minute by minute
and second by second,
in and out of the dance floor, bunting high
the band playing somewhere
behind the gap, the station master tall
and resplendent, polished
demeanour but who would still
rather be the poet of the world,
a title he fully deserves;
all is measured chaos
and it shines like an out of control supernova…
You should always tap
your foot along to this beat,
this waltz
everyday.
Ian D. Hall 2017