Station of Moss Light

At the abandoned station, moss climbs the timetable as if green weather could arrive by platform. A pigeon drinks from a bent brass clock, and morning hangs its wet coat on the rafters.

Tracks sleep under nettles, two dark sentences no train has finished in years. Still, iron keeps a taste of departure, a mineral note on the tongue of rain.

I walk where ticket windows once framed faces; now fern fronds count small currencies of shade. Somewhere behind the wall, water rehearses the same soft argument with stone.

By noon the whole place glows from below, light lifted through leaves, through broken glass. Nothing returns, yet everything continues: seed, rust, breath, a door learning to open inward.