A complex, riveted, rounded, squared, hinged, wheel and axle
cacaphony of rumbling motion,
Carries me home;
Thrum go the weight of moving wheels on metal rails,
Thrum, thrum, changala, achug, achug,
And we move through little brick and stone towns,
Tended greens and hedges,
And where the railway meets the town
On the verges there, a thrust of wilderness.

We leave the paltry, four-wheeled go-abouts behind,
Also, the stoppered stoplights of a crossing,
Final backyards with toys and white canoe turned over pass by,
Now the hydro lines dip and sway their wires
As we - chungala, achug, achug,
Move back to farmlands,
Full or fallow.
Green is a mesmerizing colour.

Listen, a whistle to warn that we are moving with no thought of stopping,
For 50 miles or more.
My trains sews up the landscape like a steel needle,
Defining commerce,
Marking boundary,
Gypsy in a settled land,
As I changala, chug, a chug,
Move homeward once again.


© Sonia Brock May 1985

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