Peter Waters

Peter Waters

From 1904 back to the present day and still a railway theme.  One of the great things about doing a blog like this is discovering new poems and new writers.  Scouring the internet I found this poem which gives a lovingly novel take on journeying to Teignmouth by train.  Thanks to Peter Waters who is ‘local’, though I don’t know how local.

In his words:  “An addition to what appears to be an increasing number of rail-related poems by me ..with acknowledgments to John Keats and Patrick Wolfe who eponymously went before…”

(Peter Waters)

“The train -now departing, from platform 3,
Is the 18.47 for Bristol Temple Meads.
Calling at : Newton Abbot; Teignmouth;
Dawlish; Dawlish Warren;
Exeter St Davids;
Tiverton Parkway;

All stops are stated, with an equanimity,
That makes no suggestion of partiality,
By an announcer whose apologies are lacking in passion –
Unlike the reception at my terminal station…

For it’s Teignmouth,
Where her mouth,
Greets my mouth…
There…oh! long sweetly sought, all too soon to be sundered there,
Is my chosen destination.

Want to see more?  Check out:

Peter Waters poetry ….
Teignmouth by Patrick Wolf



One thought on “Teignmouth

  1. Marc Woodward

    Hi Neil, Good to meet you the other night. I tried to email you at the address you gave me (neilhowill@gmail.com ) but got a reply from a different person saying I had the wrong address!

    Anyway, if you’re interested here’s the poem I mentioned: (it needs to be centred)




    at low tide

    there is a wide sandbank

    in the river.

    a flat island

    where gulls peck for lugworms

    and the oystercatcher’s shrill call

    skims the water.

    on summer days

    you can canoe to this island

    and on the hard wave-slapped sand stay

    until the rising turning tide

    washes you away.

    there in the night,

    when land splits the surface,

    it cracks a moving, shining mirror,

    breaking the moon’s quivering face

    into light stippled and

    silver rippled, lace-

    like sand puddles.

    lost and reclaimed, midnight to noon.

    this lonely seagiven land,

    this land in the call of the moon.


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