Alek and I have chronic illness in common. We like to write trips for each other sometimes.

Let’s take a ride on a British Rail train,
seats chequered moss green and blue,
clattering onwards through late winter rain,
tables for four or for two.

Let’s order tea from a damp buffet car,
Styrofoam cups with tight tops,
maybe some shortbread, a sticky Twix bar,
white paper napkins for slops.

Let’s embark smiling in spite of the cold,
head for a turn on the pier,
breathe in the salt spray, watch folk young and old,
while a lone gull sounds a jeer.

Let’s find a café for haddock and chips,
watching tall ships through the gloam,
chatting and laughing about other trips,
back to the platform, then home.