Some Sundays, Some Trains
Sundays were special. I love to stand
On the bridge near brambles seated on sides
And wait and watch and listen to sleepers
Wide awake below chattering as trains
Race by in Doppler shift. Porters
Ply trade on platforms gleefully.
Carriage insulation takes recess
From noise outside, while whiffs from vendor's
Hot dogs echo whoofs to enter.
Seldom are you aware of several
Components meeting to action motion
Without engine, the prime mover present.
But anoraks wear today's electric
Garb of efficiency uneasily.
Those good old days brand boldly hearts with coals
In firebox, beating crackles on eardrums
And steam, hissing like Cobra from boiler
To cylinder, is a sweet punch to piston
While a corkscrew of black smoke
Signals train quitting station.
Buildings unnerved turn backs disrespectfully
But the quiver of columns gives the game
Away when bluff is called.
Farms fan country smells of cattle and manure
And grass blows flutes
To heighten spending cents at buffet.
Hedges run along a river bank
Excitedly expecting payout,
But find music has fallen flat
At a dry mouth. At level crossings
Vehicles wait with faceless souls inside.
Approaching a junkyard magnet swanking
Above draws eyes to display strength lifting
Old cars and large metal objects
With a single heave. Now, lines curve
Like vector and part like tracks into domes
Until peeping out slowly past carriages
Standing idly as passengers, train
Applies traction motors in reverse flow,
Stops spot on at station shuddering
And steaming, whistling and enjoying,
Ready to devour a fresh load.