The railway as a metaphor for mindfulness

Staccato through the station,
Soles slap the steps, two at a time,
Bones raised for acceleration,
Pounding of left, pounding of right,
Coursing up and over
The wrought-iron over-bridge,
Where the blurred line stirs
Through translucent glass squares
Into a looming sense of departure,
Cursing the concourse at the notion
Of impending absence sorely missed,
Descending barrier to motion,
The spokes spinning moments,
Skidding legs like cartoons pissed,
Time's orange digits winking,
Scrolling, unblinking, thinking
A prerecorded monologue:
Catch it, this is the ONE;
Poised, polymerised along the platform
In a serial air that's all
Beep-beep, push-shunt, shrill whistle
As concertinaed carriages stretch out
In a drawn string twist.

Yet still,
If you can see the tail snaking,
You can reach out and claw it back,
Gears protesting, chafed metal waking,
Or take up chase
With the soot strong in your nostrils:
Follow the tracks, run it to ground,
Like a black and white Western,
Swing aboard with a Stetson tipped
To the sound of the taking
Of a sigh of relief.
Stow the lasso,
Lay the butterfly net in the overhead,
Sit back.
Let the ripples subside.
Feel the sweat dry,
Then itchingly wonder,
is this towards or away?
 
And perhaps there is no race:
You settle space early,
Take your rightful place
As the continuum shifts,
Seat occupied by a reverie of movement,
Absorbed in the predetermined semaphore
Of a clack-clack lullaby looping,
Tracks signalling direction, progress,
Look through the window
In repose, regress…
Until, presently,
Another line passes,
Jars in a blur,
Shakes and rattles thunder,
Dislodges the suspicion,
Of a partitioned moment lost.

Take the spotter's notebook,
Scored by occasional pencil marks,
Parallel and perpendicular,
Testament to the damp art of bystanding,
With figures that nod to the recognition of passage,
The sense of occasion without obligation;
No pre-booked journeys printed,
No ownership by association,
And know that it's ok
To watch a train go past.