The train now standing at platform 2 is empty now, <br />its windows still fogged by smut and smog <br />that lapped its sides for the time of its reign. <br /> <br />Worn seats are still depressed by ghostly bottoms, <br />those excited passengers of long ago. <br />They’re essence fills the very air we breathe. <br /> <br />Now the train holds no one, it sits on a mocked up platform <br />at York Museum to allow eager eyed tourists <br />to walk silently within its carriages. <br /> <br />It clings tightly to memories, veiled secrets, <br />somehow wanting to tell all it has seen ___ <br />rolling hillsides, green fields, quaint hamlets....... <br /> <br />Its driver, with blackened fingers and grubby face <br />no longer steers its mighty coaches <br />but his presence is ever felt <br /> <br />by all that walk through the 10.15 calling at <br />lost dreams, sand castles, treasured friends, lover’s trysts <br />and all stations to destiny……<br /><br />Ruth Walters<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-train-22/
