My father was a newsagent in Wiltshire

He ran a string of newsagents shops

I was a Wiltshire Lad

And then we moved to London

Where he ran a string of station bookstalls

In the city and in the suburbs

My favourite by far was the bookstall

At Harrow and Wealdstone Railway Station

Its main attraction to me were the express trains

(Up and Down)

That passed by at speed

(Platforms Three and Four)

When one of these trains entered the station

The whole bookstall shook

I was never bored as there was plenty to read

On a couple of occasions I crashed in the stall overnight

(Late London Hours)

As there was a small settee in the kitchen area

Strangely there was also a loo which I kept very clean

Probably too clean as the bookstall always smelt of pine

It was also a place where I learned about life

As on three occasions I served customers

Who later committed suicide in front of trains

I mourned them with a limited understanding

It was part of the macabre history of the station

Which is well known and of which I will not speak

On occasions I invited friends into the stall

Just for the company and a chat

It was so chilled as everything seemed to flat line

Nobody had agendas in those days

It reminded me loosely of The Drifters

Which was one of the paperback books I displayed

Everybody was on their own journey

I chatted to a girl called Dominic (yes that was her name)

The daughter of a local butcher

Who loved poetry as much as I did

We wrote together exchanging ideas

Some of my poems still survive

And can be found elsewhere on this website

We were friends but just passing friends

As she was already at university

Correspondence ceased soon after her return

But my poems remained captured and whole

I often wonder if she found the success she wanted

But like me she wrote using various pseudonyms

So far I have not traced her work

Neither her mine I believe

This is not an exercise in nostalgia

But just a recollection of days past

And if I should be as bold Mr Houseman

I will (to close) use a few lines of your beautiful poem

As it sums everything up

Into my heart an air that kills From yon far country blows: What are those blue remembered hills, What spires, what farms are those? That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, The happy highways where I went And cannot come again.