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.