Sunshine on Station Road (With Strings Attached)

O bliss! The curtains billow like sails On a schooner bound for Nowhere-in-Particular, And Mr. Blue Sky, punctual as any postman, Strides over the chimney pots With the self-confidence of a man Who invented morning personally. He slaps light across my pillow As if to say, “Up you get, old chap— Happiness won’t wait all day.” So up I rise—eventually— Kettle groaning, slippers muttering, The house sighing like a mildly disappointed aunt. Outside, Station Road stretches lazily Past the bakery and the betting shop, Each establishment radiating its own form of hope. The baker hopes his buns don’t deflate; The punter hopes his horse does the opposite. A bus wheezes past— Destination: Somewhere Less Exciting— But its radio leaks a snippet Of Livin’ Thing, Which makes an elderly man at the stop Tap his umbrella with unexpected rhythm. For a moment he looks vaguely rebellious, As if he might discard the umbrella entirely And take up skateboarding. Near the crossing a telephone box stands— One of the last in the district— And I swear I hear it hum The ghost of Telephone Line. How many confessions, Break-ups, reconciliations, And misdialled pizza orders Echo still within that glassy shrine? I peer in. The receiver hangs askew, Like a tired debutante after a long ball. Past the newsagent’s (“TODAY’S WEATHER: OPTIMISTIC”), I turn toward the park. Here, ducks perform their daily committee meeting On matters of bread distribution, While a jogger—headphones blasting Hold On Tight— Attempts heroically To outrun both time and physics. He gives me a thumbs-up That seems to say: “Should have stretched.” By the bandstand, I witness a small domestic tragedy: A courting pair, all nerves and new affection. He offers her a milkshake; She declines; He panics and buys two more Just in case. Their awkward ballet reminds me sweetly Of Sweet Talkin’ Woman— All yearning, clumsiness, And lactose. Further on, A flock of teenagers loiters in formation, Their portable speaker blaring Turn to Stone. They appear determined To look bored enough To frighten excitement away. Yet one of them—all fringe and sincerity— Practises a shy dance-step When the others are pretending not to look. I silently applaud his courage. At last, the afternoon wanes, A polite guest preparing to leave. Shops click shut, The sky purples delicately, And the lamplighter of the modern age— An automated timer— Sprinkles the street with steady glow. Evening settles with the cosy assurance Of a cat curling into your lap. Home again, I sit by the window With a cup of something warm And admit, Despite the bills, the buses, The small-town silliness of the day, There’s music threaded through it all— A quiet, insistent brightness. A sort of everyday Electric Light That refuses, bless it, To go out.