I find it strange that I notice first the clumps of hardy Grass,
random and stark, sprouting from beneath the ballast’s Mass,
born from lithic Dark.
When away to the distance arc steel Rails once new and bright,
now with viral rust, torpid corruption relentless Day and Night
their purpose to adjust.
Now no Engines claw along it’s length to who knows where,
only ghosts of the past, from carriage windows blankly stare,
coming home at last.
I wonder who they were ?