THE FOUR-FIFTEEN FROM CHARING CROSS
The four-fifteen from Charing Cross is just about to go.
The whistle blows, the doors are slammed
And in the carriages they sit
In splendid isolation from the people they don’t know.
Commuters travelling homeward early to avoid the crush
Of other workers on the crowded train.
For once they have a seat and can relax
Enjoying this brief respite from the daily rush.
An elderly couple, returning from a visit to their son
Excited still by time they spent
With children, grandchildren, and yet
Filled with a longing for the peace of their own home.
The train stops and a group of noisy, giggling children join the train.
They balance carefully between the seats
And shout to one another, eating sweets,
And plan their time when homwork’s done again.
Suppose they’d say the other travellers are not their friends,
How do they know without the benefit
Of smiles exchanged and eyes that meet,
A sympathetic word, a listening ear till journey’s end.
For strangers are just friends we’ve not yet come across.
What joys we forfeit when we withdraw
Into ourselves and so exclude
The other travellers on the four-fifteen from Charing Cross.
A woman with a child complains about bad language used
By students, they just laugh
And move along, continuing all the while
To use the swear words and our God abuse.
Each person or each group member
In splendid isolation from the rest;
It is as if a hedge has grown around them all
There is no interest in the others’ love or life or pain.