Waiting for the Train

I have thought myself
inside a painting by Jeffrey Smart
where I am richer

and infinitely more
composed. Calm
in the stillness of bad weather—

a storm
captured at the point of passing,
a foreboding sky

cracked open by the sun.
I do not know
what will happen—

I feel uncommonly small
yet hopeful.
My cohabitants

are tightly packed
within themselves—
they hum

a prayer of their containment,
a dampened music.
I close my eyes

and silence comes,
released
as though from deep

within a bed of sandstone—
it seeks to claim me.
Paused,

forever imminent,
and the world
on my lips
     feels massive.

© Craig Billingham