IRON ROADS

This my era, this my age

Steam, not muscle, turns this page

And want drives the peasant from the farmland raw

To the mine, the mill, and factory floor

 

Forge and hardship, street and row

Rivers of white-hot metal flow

To run through the valleys and set rock hard

In rail, and junction, and marshalling yard

 

Which turns the wheels of this new age

Which boasts its might through the pressure gauge

And by spangling crucibles laden with heat

Proves the mettle of man with each iron feat

 

From horse-drawn bounty at farmer's gate

To city-bound trains of thundering freight

From weary travellers upon muddy trails

To cosseted passengers riding the rails

 

Now banished are the pot-holes that jangle the nerves

Banished also, those serpentine swerves

The highway robbers have disappeared too

Their trade destroyed by folk speeding through

 

WAITING FOR THE NIGHT TRAIN

As though time were a grain, I am young again

Waiting on a bridge for a Swanage train

Waiting agog under a black quilted sky

On a narrow country lane, where above me the sigh

Of whispering trees stirred by a lazy breeze

Spawn madcap bats made of tattered top-hats

While an unseen owl hoots its lonesome refrain

To the hushed rasp of crickets…

But as yet no train

With telegraph wires humming, which the breeze likes strumming

Where soon will a night train be hissing and drumming

Here glow-worms like spangles cast specks of queer light

And sweet distant Swanage makes a similar sight

Its streetlamps too shy to offend the sky

I listen with arms now like goose-bump farms

And with my trousers besmirched by a bicycle chain

I gaze at dark hills and wait and wait…

But as yet no train

 

NIGHT WHISPERS

Hush the Milky Way this chilly, chilly night

Steadfast beyond our earthly breeze

Beyond gnarled oak fingers clutching eerie light

In whispering picture-frame trees

Here twinkle a trillion pin-holes leaking eternal light

And a moon trapped by leafy creation

To turn the woodland a ghostly white

And make silver a little country station

 

THE FIREMAN’S DAY

A very long day, has he, up before dawn to raise steam

As busy as a bee, is he, while the sleepers beneath him still dream

And when all the oiling and toiling and cleaning is done

When all is done, and done just right

When the loco’s first breath and the mists become one

In morning’s hushed glow of pink satin light

So begins the heaving to shift his first ton

With wheels strobing sunrays as they turn with a clatter

Scaring deer and crows to a long-shadowed scatter

 

Then, when the boiling of water is done and finished

The firebox dampened, the flames diminished

When the line is at peace with all signals red

And owls again hoot and rabbits play

With each train-spotting boy returned to his bed

Yet still lies there work at the end of the day

That an iron steed may repose in its smog-filled shed

With its grate flushed clean and its fire dead

 

THE PORTER IN FLABBY WELLIES

The Flubberwump came and the FlubberWump went

Even though his shank was bent

And he’d lost his job at Herston booking hall

So I pulled him in with a shnapaker hook

So that I could take a closer look

That’s when I spotted

He wasn’t there at all

 

WOODPECKER SIDING

How much wood would a woodpecker peck
If a woodpecker could peck wood?
'Not a lot' was the answer I got
From the woodpecker checker, Mr Becker
With its beak so weak it wouldn't last a week
Blunted by a hole in a telegraph pole, and another no deeper in a sleeper
Yet still I have a hunch that when it comes to the crunch
And given time to munch, it would serve quite well as a ticket punch

 

LOVE ME, LOVE MY ENGINE

You think more of that pacific saddle tank

Or whatever you call it

Than you do of me

Said she

But it spreads so much joy when I steam it up

This you cannot deny

Said I

Next you’ll be wanting the thing here for dinner

Or maybe for tea?

Said she

What a grand idea, though it would need a lengthy siding

Step aside and let me try

Said I

With a gap in the fence and the siding laid

And my beloved Bulleid hissing

There was she

My missis missing

 

WHAT IS IT ?

Expensive to run is what rural branch lines will ever be
But on this little one, what is most precious is also free
It tips the scales between extinction and survival
And like the rails, makes possible your train’s arrival

It paints, it gardens, uses telegraph codes
It polishes and restores what the sea air corrodes
It sells tickets, lays track, fits bells and alarms
Learns about points, pulleys and semaphore arms

It plumbs, machines parts, upholsters and glazes
It wires, waves flags, and builds stuff that amazes
It oils, sweeps yards, blows whistles, wields wrenches
Types letters, shovels coal, saws wood, digs trenches

It fundraises, advertises, and earns publicity
Brings Santa and Thomas and childhood felicity
It negotiates with officials and balances the books
It manages, tends bars, inspects bridges, and cooks

It is often in uniform to authenticate the view
It smiles and informs, and makes you smile too
You’ve guessed, you’ve guessed; it is, of course
The much revered, rightly proud, volunteer force