Ghost Train.

We march from the station
noisy in our smart winter boots
tromping up the ramp
and spilling into the streets.

I peel off early
blossom-way walking
and somehow the evening
is the blue of early morning
and its stretching scattered clouds
are lit-up from below
by the sun quickly dying.
(Or does it rise again?)

The air inside the gate
is thick and laced with scent
sweet and sharp and heady.

It's the jonquils pushing up
rising with the late-day morning sun.