Ursula Florence

They wait upon this platform,

sleeping in benches, covered with papers of the year they arrived,

let slip their arms to play a clink of glass to echoe amongst the bare and naked walls,

They intedned not to stay long,

Soon there will come a cylindrically navy topped man,

with copper plaque stapled to his head,

carrying a bell of some mysterious alloy and whistle of unfathomable tune,

he comes to whisk them away on 'ere of breath and marrow from their aching bones,

One by one they loft and flutter to the screen door wide open and leave today for tomorrow