Going Home - Alternative Ending

Perth is stretching, half awake,
the station smells of rain and rolls.
I find my seat, a window view,
and settle in with travel goals.

A flask of tea, a novel thick,
a bag of crisps that taste of sea—
and off we glide through sleepy streets,
past gardens blinking quietly.

The trees are dressed in Saturday—
not quite formal, not too wild.
The clouds discuss their weekend plans,
a weathery and wayward child.

We swoop through fields and tidy farms,
by cows arranged in perfect rows,
then Edinburgh with its grand regards—
a city balancing on prose.

More people board with bags and buns,
a baby wails with righteous might;
someone's scrolling holiday homes,
someone else’s hair is… quite a sight.

Then off again through Borders green,
the lammergeier of trains in flight—
we do not rush, we gallivant,
a southbound tale in stripes of light.

Berwick shows us sea and sky,
a ruin winks as if to say,
“Your city waits, but take your time—
the world is best in slight delay.”

In England now, the accents shift,
a summons crackles through the train:
"Would the manager please assist—
the driver needs you once again."

We pause, we fret, we glide away—
then back the way we came, confused.
The train still rumbles, shakes, and whines,
our schedule lightly… rearranged.

At York, all seems to steady out—
a final stop before the run.
But fate, in Doncaster disguise,
has other ideas of fun.

“Attention please,” the tannoy cries,
“We're adding in a stop and Time!”
The train will end right here, it says—
our tale detours before its rhyme.

No staff await with guiding hands,
but there—a second train in place!
We board again, with British grace,
slightly grumpy, saving face.

At last we reach King’s Cross, delayed—
but whole, and craving tea and rest.
A taxi whisks us underground-free,
and that, we think, might be the test.

The Farnborough 17:09 awaits!
We reach the door with seconds spare…
But no! A guard, all grins and spite,
slams shut the door with practiced flair.

He signals, waves, the train pulls out—
the drama not quite done just yet.
Denied, we wander through the maze,
to find another route, and sweat.

At last, we're home. The door swings wide,
familiar floor beneath our feet.
The kettle hums, the garden sighs—
our quiet place, our soft retreat.