A thin mist hangs over the houses
and a sharp, white frost in the brambles beside the track,
as we pull in.
The signal is green on the fast line,
but there is no train;
just us, the stopping:
we, the bus on rails, slow and steady,
draining towns as we grind our brakes to work,
straining at the platform as our frosty breath
And will the fast catch us up?
You bet they will, and they will race past to the city, where the sun is glinting off the windows,
and the air is moist and warm.