A once proud and busy place
built to help the daily race,
railway tracks, like welcoming arms
always there day or night.
Stationmaster always busy
sweeping the platforms, picking up litter,
tending to the flower gardens
oh so proud of all his creations.
Came the day such sad news,
no longer needed what would he do.
Looking up and down the tracks
no sounds of approaching trains,
birds still sang no changes for them
station would become a memory.
Grass and weeds take over a once loved place
no humans no trains such a lonely state.
Windows like eyes peered into space
why me, why me, winds sang imaginary sounds
changes called progress, sweeping the land,
railway stations joining history.
Dead of night, the wind pays a visit
imagination like the sound of lost souls.
Stationmaster revisits his domain,
broken glass, rusted gutters
hanging down like tears of disaster.
He imagines all the scenes gone by
he falls asleep in the peaceful scene
never to wake from his wonderful dreams.
The journey kindled,
hopes ablaze,
a future now unseen
Moments of ecstacy,
moments of grief,
lost ashes inbetween
Cowling on fire,
time a slow burn,
the stationmaster cries…
“The tracks have melted,
locomotive’s in flames
—your ticket singed and fried”
(Dreamsleep: January, 2020)
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