January 15th

He pulls his long black coat closer
As the bitter wind gusts through the concrete
Dark temple flecked with gray, a little more perhaps
Or maybe the snow flurries starting to settle.
Bitingly cold on the open platform
A Thursday in January in York
Million miles from an English Summer

A snake of light cuts through the gloom
As the Birmingham train jerks into the station
The doors open and as humanity gushes forth
He scans the faces anxiously, not knowing if hers will be one.
Five months since and a vague promise; too much to expect.

The last doors close and the souls hurry away
Brushing past as he leans on the barrier
Gazing wistfully at the now desolate platform.
Final chapter, closed book, he turns.
And she's there, watching him severely
Tall and elegant as ever, blond hair tied up
Unsure now, until she smiles.
She runs, he stumbles
And under the Station Clock,
They pour into each other's arms.