There's a spot on the horizon In the ripple of the sun Where railway lines and stanchions fuse And merge, becoming one. I was staring from the platform When a distant dot appeared. It grew in size and shape and form And sounded as it neared. I caught blurred faces turning As they thundered by so fast To briefly glimpse where strangers met Each Thursday in the past. Back then the steam and music Lit up life's black and white. By tugging strings when love went wrong Rachmaninoff was right.