Exeter St Davids (sic)

Is there nothing more depressingly British
than pacing wet stretches of railway platforms?
Laid grey under long runs of iron-beamed roofing,
with those fret cut fascias – hundreds of vertical slats,
above us, there, suspended, ‘Up’ and ‘Down’ indicators,
all part of the railway’s once national language,
which forced the idea of time, across the country, to be fixed
against the nature of space; hours regulated, queued by law,
and compartmentalized by class inside the carriages,
a big difference in leg space, but all on a standard gauge.

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