Photo: Train Tracks by Peter Griffin

This poem was based on my hometown having a rail service resume after many years of closure. Unfortunately, at that time, the original Victorian station building was being used as a bar, and the replacement was basically a plastic bus shelter! I thought it sad that the railway service seemed very low-key. Fortunately, the original station has since been restored to its former glory. 

Waiting: wet, weary and windswept,
small groups huddle against the cold.
Seeking protection in plastic bus shelters.

The sleeping giant of the old station building
lies hidden, waiting for a makeover.
Awaiting rooms.

An old train pulls in,
quiet, almost retiring.
No whistles here.

No hustle and bustle,
no smells, no atmosphere.
Public transport in private.

They bought this station back to life
like Frankenstein’s Monster,
but this is more like the ghost train.

Heavy metal tracks
with shiny silver tops
stretched to the horizon,
almost infinity,
almost forgotten.
Hard lines.

The old hissing steaming dinosaurs
have long since been made extinct.
No smoke – without fire.
To be replaced by the new
clean, silent, safe?
“Sorry, indefinite delays.”