I love old things the derelicts along the track abandoned transports battered coaches crooked signs rusting iron rotting sleepers; the slouch of men and women whispering and waiting for they appear to me as angels in their silences.

I love the brooding colours of dead weeds their contrasts  empty cans yellowed scraps of paper, plastic, broken glass and above them all the canopies of fretted wood blue flakes of paint red corroded locks the silvered fleur de lis on trellises and gates the endless trail of wires from where to whom unknown; and there, do you see it? that pale-fingered pink brushing dawn in winter near the conduits on the station wall?

I love the gleam of rails the signal lights through fog and the mournful echoes from the port below of gulls weeping for you my love, for your red lips among the cheerless towers of this old town.

I love the shock of sounds the sudden ping of steel expanding the points snapping to attention and then, in the stillness hovering, that pulsation when the train appears skimming down the permanent way singing its railroad song, for you my love.