Sands of Time

They think I’m sitting on the train

But I’m not.

I’m walking in the woods

With the wind caressing my face.

The sound in my ears is

The sough of the breeze in the branches.

The click of the wheels

The constipated tinkle of phones

Blur and fade

As do the voices round me.

The woman opposite me stares.

She can’t understand

The dream in my eyes.

Perhaps she thinks I’m mad.

Or asleep.

Or just vacant. Not at home.

She’s right. I’m not sitting on the train.

I’m walking on the shore.

The crash of the waves

The rattle of shingle

The cry of the gulls

Drown out the sound

Of the rails.

I think I’m sitting on the train.

I don’t realise that I have gone.

The woman opposite me screams.

The seat is empty.

I am not there.

They think she’s mad

Or perhaps she dreamed.

They pat her hand and offer counsel

And no one – ever – looks for me.

I am there, on my imagined shore.

Trapped between times.

Between existences.

And I am late for my appointments.