There is a station
that most maps have forgotten,
where one timber bench
leans faithfully into the years,
and frost writes its silver scripture
across the sleeping rails.
I arrive before the timetable matters.
The platform is empty
except for my breath,
which rises in pale confession
to a sky still deciding
whether to remain a dream
or become another morning.
Beyond the fence,
the paddocks wear a white quilt,
every blade of grass
holding a crystal
as though the earth
has spent the whole night
collecting tiny stars.
No train yet.
Only silence,
and even that
is slowly surrendering.
The first magpie
tries a careful note,
testing the cold air
like a violinist
drawing a bow
across an untouched string.
Then another answers.
Soon the trees
are full of conversation,
while wrens stitch invisible music
between the fence posts,
and wagtails dance
through the brittle grass
without ever asking
who might be watching.
Near the edge of the platform,
where the sleepers meet
a patch of wild clover,
bees begin their morning shift.
Not hurried.
Not late.
Only faithful
to the ancient agreement
between blossom
and tomorrow.
The eastern hills
unbutton themselves
one golden thread at a time.
Sunlight pours carefully
across distant roofs,
slips through skeletal gums,
finds the weathered station sign,
and warms the old paint
without demanding
it become new again.
It reaches me last.
The frost gives way
not with defeat,
but with quiet permission,
each crystal surrendering
its brief perfection
to something brighter.
Still,
there is no train.
And I begin to understand
that perhaps
I have mistaken
the purpose of this place.
The waiting
was never an interruption.
It was the destination.
This hour between
asks nothing of me.
Not ambition.
Not memory.
Not regret.
Only that I witness
the ordinary miracle
of another day
finding the courage
to begin.
When the distant whistle
finally rises
from somewhere beyond the bend,
I almost hope
it belongs to another traveller.
For there are moments
that should not be hurried,
hours that refuse
to measure themselves
by clocks,
and stations
where the greatest arrival
is simply becoming present
before the world remembers
to be busy.
The train comes.
The doors open.
Yet for one lingering heartbeat,
I remain beside the weathered bench,
listening to bees,
to birds,
to thawing earth,
grateful
for the hour between.
