SHANKLIN RAIN All this July day, soft rain has soaked my orange American cotton: I have walked through a chine that is like a subtropical biome. Under the platform’s roof, the station clock makes dripping sounds. A small woman talks to herself on a painted bench to assuage the loneliness – her voice, like that of a radio broadcaster, switched on and off … and on … Behind us, a waiting room is locked. Outside, mist nets the east cliff; while diesel and steam, with their different rhythms and gauges, take visitors, commuters, backwards and forwards like a pendulum, a tide. Copyright © JENNY JOHNSON First published in Reach