The Derelict Country Railway Station
The shiny, silver gleam
of wheel polished railway lines
have been dulled by a thick scab
of rust. Weeds have colonized
the stoney ballast, the wooden
sleepers have rotted away to dust.
The bush has closed in, dissolving
the once clear perspectives
of distance into a leafy clutter
of nearby mallee trees.
I stand on the platform, invite
my thoughts to populate the scene.
Cracked, rutted asphalt extends
to what would have been the length
of two or three carriages long.
I wonder who would have stood here
all those years ago when steam
trains screeched and shuddered
to a stop. Who would have got on.
A young girl or boy perhaps,
stomachs tightened with fear
on their way to boarding school,
first time away from the farm.
A veteran or a grandmother
with an appointment at a city hospital
about to be told the bad news. Maybe
a family, a newly married couple
heading for a weekend holiday
with tickets to a football match,
picture show or a visit to the zoo.
The sad, solitary figure
of a teenage mother clothed to cover
her secret, escaping from shame.
I wince at the thought
of how it was back then.
Time passes. I walk back to the car
and drive off leaving no trace
of my visit except for a memory
lodged now in a diminishing
perspective that is fast
closing in behind me.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2024
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