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.