The Railway Child

She’d wait.

Further up the beach I’d mime
stepping out of a steam train.
I’d perform the big gesture
of closing the carriage door
and turning to face her.

The smoke would clear.
She’d recognise me.

“Daddy, my Daddy,” she’d cry
and run, like little Jenny Agutter,
towards my outstretched arms.

I’d lift her high above my head
and swing her round and round and round
until we were dizzy.

“Again,” she’d shout.
“Again.”

And we’d act it out
again and again and again;
the train arriving,
the daddy descending,
the smoke clearing,

the running, the lifting,
again and again and again
until we were dizzy,
as her mother disappeared
in the distance.