marin

a halt. not a station — there is no building, only the sign, the lamp, a bench of three planks, and the rail running on past a hedge of dog rose. trains stop here on request, and only the first train of the day and the last. the rest pass through, slowly, out of politeness.

the village is up the lane, four cottages and a chapel with a leaning yew. the stationmaster lives in the second cottage and does not call himself one; the title attaches anyway. she keeps the bench oiled. she replaces the sign every nine years. the lamp is older than that and runs on a switch she trusts more than she should.

field note: a swallow uses the lamp-hood as a perch in june. it is shy of travellers but not of the walker who stops most mornings to read the printed timetable, even though he knows it.