The Old Station

The Old Station Frank Halliwell The ghosts of Iron Horses haunt The station in the glade. The shrill scream of escaping steam Must still these walls pervade. She's there, if one should care to look! Deserted and downcast. Half-hidden now and overgrown- A portal to the past. A passport to a place in time A world that once I knew, These great trees that were saplings then, Now shield her from our view. They hide the rot and peeling paint The broken window's stare, The ancient litter on the platform Blowing here and there. Grass clogs the idle right-of-way The rails are red with rust And unseen wraiths gaze down the tracks From windows streaked with dust. They strain to hear that whistle's moan Borne by the vagrant breeze. But all is silent, save the birds Up nesting in the trees. The old station is derelict Its shutters swing awry. And holes up on the rotting roof Are open to the sky! She waits, year after endless year, Unwitting of her fate! She's waiting for the next train, But the next train's running late... ***