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...
***
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