The Last Train from St Fort Tickets for Dundee had been collected from passengers on the train before crossing the bridge. The Library of Nineteenth-Century Photography They have the stubs, some fifty-six of these, all punched, a blank triangle nicked from every ticket’s edge, arranged into this neat display, framed up and photographed, a wreath of non-arrival commemorating those they dredged out of the Firth, bedraggled in their city clothes, or navvy’s gear, sandbanks seeping from the seams, and carted lifeless through the streets they would have stepped on to that night but for the force and angle of the wind, and workmanship so bad it might have been deliberate neglect; or some sick joke, like that the men made later from his name, damned Bouch: the bodger who had flung them from the edge of certainty; dashed Victorian assurance that their Bradshaw was reliable, the engineering sound; nothing could delay the locomotive, not yet renamed The Diver as it would be later, hauled out of the deep, uncoupled from its ruined rolling stock to ride the rails another day, the monument from which it plunged unwary through the chasm of the gale: those stubs of pillars strung across the Tay. Brian Johnstone Brian Johnstone’s poetry has appeared in Scotland and over 20 countries worldwide. He has published seven collections, most recently Dry Stone Work (Arc, 2014) and Juke Box Jeopardy (Red Squirrel, 2018), plus a prose memoir Double Exposure (Saraband, 2017). He is a founder and former Director of the StAnza Poetry Festival. http://www.brianjohnstonepoet.co.uk
1 Comment
Lindsay Shen
10/2/2019 12:20:27 am
This is really moving. And musical.
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September 2024
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