I used to be a railway
Down my gleaming silver ribbons
Dashed carriages and steamy, gleamy engines
Carrying dainty painted crockery
Sacks of sweetheart’s kisses on envelopes
Crates of polished apples
And sons off to war.
I used to be a railway
Past my gleaming silver ribbons
Toiled doughty men of clod and clay
Turning earth and tilling the day away
Waited those men of clod and clay
Willing the train to come and
Carry them off to war.
I used to be a railway
On my gleaming silver ribbons
Those powerful chugging engines worked and
Brought cloth to swaddle baby
Black lace to trim the clothes
Of the mothers and mourners
And the shrouded shells of sons home from war.
I went for a walk this morning, looking for something. Over the humpy bridge built by the original inhabitants of my cottage. Down the side, under the bridg I visited this liminal place. The tracks are gone but the ghosts remain. I was filled with thoughts of what had been carried up and down the line and the words above were there, waiting to be plucked out of the air like a ripe apple.
I found some wood for the fire too.
What have you found today?
underavintagesky 