A train ride
The train now standing on platform 2 - is empty now,
its windows still fogged by smut and smog
that lapped its sides for the time of its reign.
It's worn seats, still depressed by ghostly bottoms,
those excited passengers of long ago,
laughing, fidgeting, chattering.
Now, the train holds no one
it sleeps on a mocked up platform at York museum,
so sad an end for plush, proud carriages.
Memories seep through its doors still whispering
of thick, black smoke that billowed through dark tunnels
as it chugged through the English countryside
The ethereal presence of its driver
is still sensed
by all that walk through the 10.15……
stopping at all stations
to quaint villages, seaside towns, lover's trysts,
favoured aunts, old friends and memories of days gone by.
Ruth Walters's Other Poems
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