The Life of a Brick on Platform 1.
I passed by your wall when I was a boy, 13, I believe.
I must have seen you.
Even though you were just a brick, one of so many, nothing special.
A very small piece, in a very big wall.
My eyes would have beamed upon your glaze, now cracked and worn.
Perhaps my dreams were faintly etched within your heart,
to be recovered at some distant time when science finds a way?
Many times I passed
looked, dreamed.
I did see you!
You were there.
Recording time
ebbing.
And I wondered.
When were you put there?
Who put you there?
I played games too, which you didn’t know.
How could you? We never talked.
How many bricks in your wall? Let me guess!
Will you remember me?
(do you remember me now?)
All played as if you were real, alive.
The boy on the train knew you were real.
This is the way a boys mind runs.
The years pass: the brick, still there
marking off memories etched in glaze.
Today, a man returned: unexpectedly.
Sitting, waiting for his train.
Looking for you.
A single brick.
But he cannot see which you are!
The wall remains, so you must be there.
Like the memories of the boy must be there.
Contained, solid
real.
Image; Art Johnstone. ‘A brick on platform 1’ . Seen from platform 3. Reading station 2019. Remembering a long lost friend and wondering……is he just across the wall?