A fluorescent line parallels the platform edge. There is so much signage and no-one to read it: notices, helpful information and history, QR codes, weblinks and warnings, a cacophony of geometry in red, black, yellow, and white, clean white, all sparkling clean and clear of encroaching ivy and moss-colonies. The station’s signage is cared for and maintained.
One of the signs says the platform is monitored by CCTV.
This is a request stop. Please hold out your arm if you want the driver to stop.
Snowdrops kissing behind a wire fence
Stay away from the edge. Stay back.
Do I look as suspicious as I feel? In the last four hours I have seen three cars and one tractor. I’ve met no-one else on foot. I feel as if I’m up to no good and I wish I had a dog to prove that I’m not merely loitering, to give me purpose, or that I’d put on my running shoes and high viz jacket for legitimacy. I have a notebook and pen, and I’m taking photos of the un-picturesque: stop signs, telegraph poles, beer cans in hedges. Is someone going to pull up and ask me what the fuck I think I’m doing?
keep off, keep out, mind the gap
like wax, like blood –
I follow drooping catenary wires past telegraph poles marked with strange hieroglyphs and fibre boxes that deliver super-fast connectivity to smart new barn conversions and ramshackle smallholdings alike, without prejudice.