[basil ransome-davies]

When trains are late you wait. There is no choice.
At home you get the ranting Tannoy's voice
forbidding this and that, the Coke machine,
the platform staff's routine dyspeptic mien,
the sodden toilet and that sullen air –
so very Brit – of muttering despair....
The bats are out, a swooping crew. At noon,
chewing my trail mix by a salt lagoon,
I viewed a plankton-tinted chorus line –
those miracles of elegant design,
flamingos. Them, the quiet delta, me;
I savour the recalled epiphany
over a Fundador and a cigar,
the cheerful uproar of the station bar
my comfort zone. The Sitges train is late
by – ooh, at least an hour now. I can wait.