There she stands, alone and decrepit,

All alone in her sadness and despair,

Being comforted by twisted twigs

And branches.

Windows like bruised eyes, glancing

Sadly at the neglected platform

Ragged net curtain blowing gently

In the breeze, resembling a spectre at the feast.

Abandoned by passengers, replaced by

Red Coated wily old fox hunting for his prey,

Curious field mouse searching for crumbs,

Evil grey rat “just looking”.

Can you smell the steam winding its

Way down the stolen tracks

Or maybe it’s the farmer’s bonfire

Burning in a distant field?

Can you hear the screech of

The majestic engine?

Or is it the Barn Owl

Pursuing his food?

Is that the chatter of people, long forgotten,

Waiting for the 8.30 train

To ferry them to work? – no, it’s

Just the chittering of the swallows.

All has gone, the station house

Weeps in memory of what used to be.

But life will always revert to

Mother nature’s way.

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S.M.Cavanagh 2023

This poem is all about Dr Beeching and the closure of the railways in the 1960s; a very sad (and big) mistake.