The train now standing at platform 2 is empty now,
its windows still fogged by smut and smog
that lapped its sides for the time of its reign.

Worn seats are still depressed by ghostly bottoms,
those excited passengers of long ago.
They’re essence fills the very air we breathe.

Now the train holds no one, it sits on a mocked up platform
at York Museum to allow eager eyed tourists
to walk silently within its carriages.

It clings tightly to memories, veiled secrets,
somehow wanting to tell all it has seen ___
rolling hillsides, green fields, quaint hamlets.......

Its driver, with blackened fingers and grubby face
no longer steers its mighty coaches
but his presence is ever felt

by all that walk through the 10.15 calling at
lost dreams, sand castles, treasured friends, lover’s trysts
and all stations to destiny……

Ruth Walters

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-train-22/