There is a kind of splendour in these northbound trains

when the evening fades along the tracks, and stations

grow elegant under the veil of rain.

Concourses and overbridges find their glamour

as daylight fades and lights spark on. At Crewe,

I turn away from the platform’s glitter

to the window opposite, past my ghost reflection

in the spangled glass, and see you

in another train, arriving at the junction

as if you were expected. No surprise

to find you there, the wing of hair,

the tilted head. Your eyes

torch into me as if I were a well

or tunnel that needed you to light me up

and make me visible again. All

the stations throw away their names,

the gods of trains give up their destinations,

our timetables spin and overlap. Frame

locks on frame, a double exposure,

the interior of my carriage cast over yours

in an algebra of darkness and disclosure,

as though some architect has plotted this,

the intricacy of jali on an ancient tomb,

the pattern of your birthmark on my wrist.