The dark secrets of trains

A few weeks ago, I caught an early morning train from Wareham to London - I had pre-ordered my ticket, so did not need to speak to Don - Don and his colleague have an encyclopedic knowledge of rail tickets - when you ask their advice about fares, they are like grave theologians, considering some delicate issue of canon law - 

The Victorian station buildings were obscured by mist when I stood on the platform - the sun was a vague white globe, hanging low in the mysterious sky -  

I looked at the shining rails, vanishing into the mist - they curved away, beyond the red light, into the vapour - 

I thought of the two aspects of trains - firstly, the pleasure of sitting in a warm compartment, sipping cappuccino, reading, a benign country unfolding before your eyes  - you might be travelling to Venice, as I once did with Richard - I can remember waking up in the sleeping compartment, seeing mountains and placid lakes - 

But the second aspect of trains was one that was dark and tragic - I thought of the trains that set off, taking people to the east - the signals facilitating the smooth passage of the lost - 

I imagined the trains passing through birch forests, arriving at unimaginable destinations - I saw, in my mind's eye, the pitiable suitcases - 

There were shining rails there, too - but it was smoke, not mist, which veiled the sun, coiling over the land of Pitchi Poi -