Weybridge Station was my
infant scar – I was pushed in
its cutting of timetables by
past recall of steam – it was
my word-fall in an early vie
of lines & truths [& see me –

I’m your too-unreliable fool
on-line] – My father was not
on a train greatly-robbed – a
scheme moved to Ledburn –
[& I am never going to ride
there either] – Here was my

platform to go via Chertsey’s
loop (Beeching’s omission &
schoolboy errors kept me to
a return ticket – railway ways
& means] – I will conjure first
person narratives ‘bout trips

through an auld shortcutting
near Surrey’s less-commuter
digging – Winstanley’s spades
never burrowed as deep as a
transient army of navies – On
St. George’s Hill they dug fair

but not enough to leave lines
ploughed low – worthy to still
turn thoughts – My pram’s jolt
of bent wheels & spring-jigs a
secondhand engineer’s bogie
that ran behind – no schedule