Dan Prichard

Fellow Traveller

It was the scratching of the nib that woke me. Not the jolting of the carriage as the train shunted back over rail and into siding; not the puffing of engine nor the hissing of steam in the frigid night; not the opening of the compartment door as passengers came and went in the half light; nor the shouts, heavy with consonants, of the signalmen outside, making their way, breathing smoke, through the snow alongside the rails. All of these I vaguely perceived in the shadows of my slumbers.