A poem I recently entered for a regional poetry competition.

Footprints

Feet now tram-walk in the sky
above a lost Weekday Cross
railway line that D. H Lawrence
may once have taken,
bearded and coughing,
down to the ‘big smoke’,
his thin frame choking
from the Eastwood coal-coke.

Feet now turn in the snow
and time pulls back its folds;
A gossamer thin second passes;
a lost train station, lost to time,
lost to rhythm and rhyme now
whispers of ‘first class’ Edwardian
splendour, of Lace cream, cream teas
and a railway red Nottingham to
London dream.

Phil Lowe