Kingfisher Station

Kingfisher Station

by Michael Redgen


I wait at derelict stations

On a platform heading west

Rusted tracks

Where weeds grow through

Rotting sleeping sleepers

Tin-pan orange nails

For you to scratch your arm on


and a pack of wild dogs.


Broken clocks

disused luggage scales

A faded time-table yearning for its heyday

(always running late)

Just waiting for a function.


Old abandoned gum-boots

lost and muddy.

An out of order restroom


A lonely crooked smile.


The only smoke left billowing

Is from a cigarette

Hanging loosely in my mouth.


This line is rarely used now

No trains will pass by whistling

Or stop to pick us up.

If I walk these disused tracks

I will reach my destination.

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