The train stops
In the shadow
Of a concrete bridge
Half-hearted graffiti
Frost scattered like salt
On a row of metal boxes
Full of railway electronics I guess
A sack of pebbles
Spilled on the grubby weeds
A dead, grey buddleia
Waits for the spring
As the train starts up
And trundles into East Croydon
A phone rings
A loud voice answers it
A young, future-artist
Should take on the job
Of colouring in all that drab graffiti
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