I have stood on platforms around the world,
beneath clocks that never seemed to hurry,
with a kitbag at my feet
and a railway ticket folded in my pocket.

In those Army years,
leave always seemed to begin here—
and somehow,
it always ended here too.

A platform.

The gateway between soldier and civilian,
between barrack room and home,
between where I had been
and wherever the Army wanted me next.

I learned the language of stations:
the whistle of the guard,
the slam of carriage doors,
the rumble beneath the rails,
and that distant announcement
you could never quite understand.

I spent hours waiting.

Sometimes writing.

A scrap of paper on my knee,
a few lines born beneath a station clock,
words gathered from faces,
footsteps,
goodbyes
and destinations.

Because even an empty platform
is never truly empty.

Stand there long enough
and the ghosts begin to arrive.

I can still see the young soldier
I once was,
leaning against his kitbag,
watching the world pass by.

Then another squaddie appears,
uniform creased from travelling,
boots carrying the dust
of somewhere far away.

A nod.

“Where you heading, mate?”

And within minutes
we were old friends.

There were girls too.

A glance across the platform,
a smile held slightly longer
than perhaps it should have been.

A conversation beside a luggage trolley,
a shared cup of tea,
a train delayed—

and suddenly
neither of us minded waiting.

Some flirtations lasted only
until the next train arrived.

Others travelled a little further.

A telephone number scribbled down,
a meeting arranged,
a few sweet weeks
when two lives briefly shared the same track.

Then came another posting,
another station,
another goodbye.

No bitterness.

Just one of those little romances
that belonged to being young.

And I remember the old soldiers.

They always seemed to find us.

Men with weathered faces
and stories waiting to be told.

“In my day, lad…”

And off they would go—

North Africa,
Italy,
Burma,
Normandy,
places that to me were history
but to them were yesterday.

We young soldiers sometimes smiled,
thinking our adventures
were only just beginning.

Funny thing is—

I understand them now.

For I have become
the older soldier
with stories of my own.

And sometimes,
when I stand on a quiet platform,
I wonder whether another young soldier
might look at me
the way I once looked at them.

The years have moved on.

Steam has disappeared.
Uniforms have changed.
Old comrades have scattered.
Some voices have fallen silent.

Yet railway platforms remain.

People still embrace beneath the clocks.
Someone still wipes away a tear.
Someone is leaving home.
Someone is returning.

A young couple exchange a smile.

A soldier waits for a train.

And perhaps, somewhere along the platform,
someone sits quietly
writing a few lines.

So when I see an empty station today,
I don’t see emptiness.

I see life.

I see departures and homecomings,
laughter and tears,
friendships made between trains,
girls I once knew,
comrades whose names still return to me,
and old soldiers telling stories
I wish now I had listened to more carefully.

The platform may be silent,

but memory is not.

For somewhere beyond the empty benches,
the old trains are still arriving,
the doors are opening,
and the people I once knew
are stepping onto the platform again.

For just a moment,

I am young.

My kitbag is at my feet.

My ticket is in my pocket.

And somewhere in the distance
I hear the guard’s whistle.

My train is coming.

But this time—

I’m in no hurry to leave.

Paul Baldry
The Boy Writes Within.

I wrote The Platform Remembers from memories gathered over many years of military travel. Every leave seemed to begin and end on a railway platform. I remember the waiting, writing lines to pass the time, chance conversations, fellow soldiers, brief romances and old veterans sharing stories of their day. Even an empty platform can feel alive to me, filled with the ghosts of journeys, friendships and moments long gone, yet somehow never forgotten.

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