A Lime Street Station Serenade.

The crowds take up their positions

on the swept clean concourse

of Lime Street Station, the ballet, the rumba,

the strains of the Viennese Waltz ,

the mad dash of front seated desire, four seats

and small squeezed in table,

the clock

high upon the wall and dominant,

the band master ready to blow the whistle

and the dance begins;

slowly at first, hesitant to let go of the one they love

and who will love them till they get home, the dance forgotten

in a heartbeat of half remembered waves goodbye

through smoke and tears on the platform edge.


The waltz, the side step of passenger in tandem,

till one breaks loose and in the midst of ordered chaos

and sat on backsides watching the world go by, tea cooling

in the winter breeze as doors open and close as players

leave the scene

as a young teenager falls in love over and over again

at the sight of pretty girls in dark tights, the music

in his head, only just heard above his mother’s

frantic calls from the sidelines to her daughter

in a faraway land

crying over her love no longer able to waltz,

is rapidly cooled and heated, the quick

step in his mind, the tango

shuffle of awkwardness and shy disposition

forgotten in the gallantry of imagined

conquest, the swoon of the leading lady,

her smile winning all awards in best picture category

and hiding a secret love for her school friend,

the gossip columns all ready

and the photographers calling out with flash

bulbs popping and being scattered upon

Lime Street Station floor.


The city woman, living

constantly between platform 7,

a sweat of perspiration, healthy glow,

and the train that takes her away

and brings her back by ten each night,

weaves around the family of six

with screaming dad, nervous

of missing the train out for the day,

only five tickets in hand, forgetting he

has also got a wife in tow,

weaving beyond and around

the football fan, Everton away,

Liverpool at home,

Tranmere across the water,

scarf pulled round his neck,

match day not till Saturday

but she likes to remind people

of her allegiance,

as she glides past sequins

of memorabilia badges

of victories in Europe

and the train guard

having had to detain

the person without a ticket,

caught out by sitting in the loo

just too long, trudges in despair

through the glow of the dance;

the rotten soul forever making his life a misery.


Coffee cups of polystyrene littered forests

the dust cart and the hearty smile of the

young woman with snakes back home,

her black hair, lacquered,

greets the passengers before she has had time

to open her mouth

and tell them mind the step,

mind the beat of the dance

in this cultured paradise,

a Lime Street station serenade, the waltz

of the everyday, minute by minute

and second by second,

in and out of the dance floor, bunting high

the band playing somewhere

behind the gap, the station master tall

and resplendent, polished

demeanour but who would still

rather be the poet of the world,

a title he fully deserves;

all is measured chaos

and it shines like an out of control supernova…


You should always tap

your foot along to this beat,

this waltz



Ian D. Hall 2017