The Trackman

Tracks are like the run of the mill time of year

When all the real ones are out and the unreal are in

Where the rare timetable of all the trains has hit the dock

And there is nothing left but the real thing called the stop.

The stop is the end.  The stop is the beggar and thief.

It is the mile and the high but not the soft and sure

It is the stop and go and the stun and stare

Not the run and walk, the weir and wire

I will be the one who pulls it through while you

Be the one who opens and shuts the cur who wants to shut

Them down to the tyne and weary old fun called tunnel-digging

Under the great water called Channel.

I won’t be able to nod at you as I drive by

I will not be the one who cares at your stare

I will be there today and again tomorrow

But never before have I met with you here.

Is it a strange lever to pull, this open warfare on

The works of engineers and labourers

Put them up and blow them down

But nothing stops progress like a time-out for tea.

Copyright B E Saunders 2016

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