I hear they’re sending out ghost trains
into the wild whirling eye of the storm
loosed blind and unguided by driver or guard
on rattling rails to the gods of chance.
The ghost trains are blissfully empty
yet their windows are haunted by songs
of desolate winds and faces long gone
appearing to speak but mouthing no sense.
The ghost trains contain no passengers
yet the outline of a host murmurs in fear
and bursts through the carriages
as rumour grows of a fatal crash.
From skies the isle is a train set
in the sombre gaze of the gods of chance.
The kings of the winds and queen
of the damned will take no prisoners.
Nobody sent a ghost train
into Preston station by midnight clocks
yet still it arrives, smoking and marred
from the wild whirling eye of the storm.