The Sunday Special Poem by Robert Dummett

The Sunday Special

Upon the bridge where tangled brambles creep,
I wait and watch the sleepers wide awake.
Below, the chattering tracks refuse to sleep,
As Sunday's silence prepares to bend and break.
Then comes the rush—the Doppler's rising wail,
The porters ply their trade with gleeful pride;
A sudden storm of steel upon the rail,
While we sit insulated deep inside.

The modern 'anoraks' look on with gray
Disdain for wires and 'garb of efficiency.'
They crave the sparks that brand the heart today,
The soot and grit of steam's dark ministry.
They want the cobra-hiss from boiler-vein,
The firebox roaring and the heavy punch
Of pistons driving through the wind and rain,
While black smoke corkscrews out for Sunday lunch.

The buildings turn their backs in cold neglect,
But columns quiver, giving up the bluff;
They feel the engine's power and respect
The thundering of the steam and soot and snuff.
The farms reek sweet, the grass blows flutes of gold,
As hedges chase the bank for promised pay;
But music falls on mouths both dry and cold
Where faceless souls at level-crossings stay.

A junkyard magnet swanks its heavy brawn,
To heave the rusted wrecks toward the sky;
Before the tracks, like vectors, curve and yawn
To lead the idling carriages on by.
With traction motors hummed in reverse flow,
The metal beast arrives, a perfect fit;
It shudders, steams, and whistles soft and low,
To feast upon the crowd and swallow it.

The station waits with granite ribs spread wide,
A hollow ribcage paved in slate and oil,
To pull the pulsing metal deep inside
And end the engine's long and weary coil.
It devours the load of souls, the heat, the sound,
The 'sweet punch' fades to silence on the stone;
Until the next 'Prime Mover' can be found,
And Sunday claims the bridge back for its own.