A Train Ride - Poem by Ruth Walters
The train now standing at platform 2 is empty now,
its windows still fogged by smut and smog
that lapped its sides for the time of its reign.
Worn seats are still depressed by ghostly bottoms,
those excited passengers of long ago.
They're essence fills the very air we breathe.
Now the train holds no one, just sits on a mocked up platform
at York Museum to allow eager, bright eyed tourists
to walk quietly within its carriages.
It clings tight to its memories, those veiled secrets,
somehow wanting to tell all it has seen ___
rolling hillsides, green fields, quaint hamlets.......
Its driver, with blackened fingers and cheeky grin
no longer steers its mighty coaches
but his presence is ever felt
by all that walk through the 10.15 calling at
sand castles, treasured friends, lover's trysts
favoured aunts and all stations to times gone by.....
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