With a dragon’s sigh,
The heavy locomotive is ready to depart;
One last wave goodbye,
A gentle tug and the journey starts.
In clouds of billowing smoke,
The train passes a signalman,
And ducks under an iron bridge,
On its way from Sheringham
To Holt, the taste of seaside
On the tongues of everyone.
From the carriage window, an unbroken view:
Harvested fields roll down to the sea,
Littered with bales and misshapen trees.
On a cliffside course a game of golf is played
And in verdant fields horses nonchalantly graze,
Momentarily obscured by a drifting haze
Of locomotive steam tinged with soot.
The train rumbles on with a blast of the whistle
Past an engine shed, carriages and sidings,
And a pyramid of coal, towards its destination.
Past stony beach, a heath with woodland walks,
To the preserved nostalgia of Weybourne Station;
An awning of Bakerloo brown and cream,
Out-of-date advertisements for Woodbines,
Preserved waiting rooms – an enthusiast’s dream.
On past the halt at Kelling Heath,
Waving at walkers, inhaling the smoky breath
And listening to the engine working hard
Through farmland, past a signal box and shunting yard
To the station at Holt and the smile of the guard.
Image found on www.visitnorfolk.co.uk