The Saga in the Hall
The clock in the concourse
keeps its brass face polished,
though the trains run late.
Below it, the tiled floor
is a saga of heelstrikes and scuffmarks —
polished brogues, steel‑capped boots,
heels that click like typebars.
Through the high windows,
light falls in measured squares,
as if the city itself
were an architect’s drawing.
You can almost hear
the draughtsman’s pencil
in the click and crackle of the switchboard,
the hiss and spit of the espresso machine
in the corner kiosk —
each sound another line
in the day’s unfolding chapter.
Here, commerce is not a shout
but a handshake;
industry not a furnace roar
but the steady bite of gears
in the lift shaft.
The air carries the tang of paper,
ink, and rain
that beads on overcoats —
all of it pressed into the floor’s
long memory of arrivals and departures.
We are all shareholders here —
clerks and porters,
managers and machinists —
each with a stake in the day’s
quiet transactions.
The building holds us
like a sentence holds its clauses,
each brick a word,
each scuffmark a comma,
in the city’s long,
unbroken paragraph.
.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 21st, 2025 05:11
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments7
Here Cryptic I feel there is deeper meaning pressed into that floor. We are all parts and marks of where we live and work. I a most descriptive set of images this poem sets the boundaries of belonging past and present where a person's history is marked in the tracks they leave and the service they perform. A lovely write that has the feel of the past imprinted on it. Truly poetic my friend
Thank you, Soren. At a certain age both past and present come forward in the interplay of the mind. 🕊️🙏🏻
You are most welcome. So true it is.
A fine write A.
Thanks O, hi to Fido and all the family🕊️🙏🏻
Arqios, this is remarkable. You turn the concourse into living text...the brass clock face, scuffed tiles, espresso hiss, all folded into a paragraph of city life. That final metaphor of the building as a sentence, bricks as words, scuffmarks as commas...it’s the perfect close, framing industry and humanity as a story we’re all writing together. Lush and precise, beautifully done, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
That truly has made my day. Your review succinctly validates and affirms the kernel of this poem. Thanks Tittu🕊️🙏🏻
Your words took me there to that place Rik and I have not been there for a very long time.
Andy
Oh, that’s nice, Andy. So good to be part of that journey to that place. 🕊️🙏🏻
I worked for many years in a train terminal built in the 20's. Before they "modernized" it I loved exploring, from the top observation floors to the sub-basement, maybe especially the sub-basement. Your using a similar building to express yourself cheers me immensely. Thanks you.
Oh, that is nice to know Dan! Most of the stations like this on my line have been replaced with modern ones or bypassed. So glad the cheer could go one🕊️🙏
A fine write, mate, with a cracking last line. Great stuff.
Thanks, Tom. Happy to have shared.🕊️🙏
You have great imagery.
Thanks David. Means a lot getting feedback that affirms and steers/stirs. 🕊🙏🏻
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