A January frost glistens under the station lights as the early shift, shuffling their feet, test for footholds, find the slipping points, ponder whether to apply winter precautions. The 5.32 rounds the down bend splashing ice sparks. A thunder flash arcs an electric glare that grazes retinas, illuminates in blue the pre-dawn morning. Ice is falling from the stars and the globular moon, setting over the station, is a frost machine. But now it is spreading time, casting salt as a sower casts seeds, as if there were fields to fertilise and not these dark stones frozen by a January frost.