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