On my birthday you gave me a book

A biography of a Yorkshire poet

Who once visited the Ribblehead Viaduct

I am standing in front of the massive structure

Remembering those who died during its construction

Some perished from disease and others were killed in industrial accidents

A few just died from life’s exhaustion

Many are buried locally in windswept graveyards

Only their ghosts remain

Unseen but heard

I would have liked to have seen a train cross the viaduct

But none have passed

Which is a pity

As my time promised much

It is nearly five and the autumn evening is now drawing in

And as I wait for my small bus

I am struck

By the sheer blue ordinariness

Of my unauthorised day