Strange poem this…inspired from the time our garden backed onto a railway line. I don’t know why the subject matter had to be so harrowing (not my usual style)…a dying man’s attempt to speed up his demise. A poem of two halves rhythmically…the train’s approach and its enforced halt.
Nelson from Colne, Lancashire (photo by Steve Bradley)
THE END OF THE LINE
Bloody trains; never on time,
Not like the days of ‘blood and custard’.
Savouring scents – hot oil and steam.
Beeching the axeman; I was ‘Disgusted’
In letters of protest, letters of “Shame!”
Even Joe Musso; he ran them right;
Like a Swiss watch – moving precision,
Tick-bloody-tock, all day and night.
God damn these trains; trying a saint.
Saint Puffing Billy. Hah! That’s me.
“Give’em up, Billy.” What is the point?
Too late now; like the 10.23.
God, it’s hot. And hurts like hell.
Is this her now, a happy release?
Iron on iron. The banshee’s yell.
On a rusting line, iced from use,
Red mites polka; death’s dancing dots;
Chickweed samba a rhythmic plea.
Without invitation, rosebays waltz
Nearer and nearer my God to –
Spat blood spilt on chippings of cream,
Like a lonely rose on her lustrous skin;
That once I kissed and not in a dream
With only the hope that I see her again.
© graylightfoot
I grew up with a railway line at the back of the garden. It wasn’t that morbid. Had a few near misses when we used it as a short cut and lost a dog, which was run over by the 7:10 train. Hearing and smelling a steam train (yes I am that old) still takes me back to my childhood days