The Flying Scotsman

 

And here's another one about trains... also one of a short series of poems about my Dad.

The Flying Scotsman

Some Saturdays Dad would take me to the footbridge

over the railway lines where we would wait.

Staring into distance at twenty-two minutes past nine

we’d see the smoke from far away

 

here it comes   here it comes   here it comes...

 

clouds of vapour growing bigger and bigger, closer and closer.

The train slowed just a bit as it rolled through the little station

away down the track; then, speeding up with steam hissing,

whistle screaming it would thunder towards us

 

here it comes      here it comes      here it comes ...

 

Too small to see over the railing, I’d jump up and down

and we’d both wave madly at the massive engine.

If we were lucky, the driver would wave back at Dad and me,

both smiling through clouds of choking smoke.

 

The train rumbled right under our feet,

filled our ears with its roar; the throbbing vibration

felt through all our bodies. We would wait on the bridge,

smarting eyes staring, as the misty trail disappeared into the north.