It was early morning, I felt the sting of cold

 just before the New Year’s Day.

I was walking up the platform for morning walk

holding its cold handrail,

smelling of fresh blue paint.

The rusty rail tracks stretched their lanes in both directions, 

running through the face of the winter fields.

The platform was quiet today,

except for the sound of an unknown bird

coming from one warm corner of the roof

its loose dry pile of hay hanging

down from top of the ceiling.

 

The branches nestled across,

 staring quietly at the platform,

leaves stripped off by the cold wind.

With loss of the leaves

The puff of wind let

the entrance gates

 swing from their hinges.

 

 Later, when the blue train arrived

 slicing the cool wind into the platform.

But it made no stop today,

 just the squeak of the wheels

on the metal track, and

It’s weight slightly shook

 the platform as it went past

And disappeared  

around the bends of summer hills 

making the platform quiet again.