Hinchley Wood station

The platform and station, the pedestrian bridge,
With rivots and panels across every ridge.
The branch line curves gently, the station has two;
Takes passengers in coaches to Waterloo.
Memories of train sets, those old iron frames;
Model railway assembly a playful mind game.
The facia, the hoarding, the shelter it gives;
Ferrying commuters from wherever they live.
Those early morn sleepers supporting the rails,
To be the train driver, telling of foot plate tales,
Dream of my father, like many a boy,
Would have to make do with their favourite toy.
Hinchley Wood station you living train set,
Need steam locomotive for idyll be met;
Engaged by the engines, the wandering mind,
Guage double o somewhere I think I can find;
Hidden aloft when last put away .
Be Station Master for the rest of the day!

The Train Commute

The stench of Commuting Train:
Its odour, the whiff, the smell;
The daily grind of living hell.
The cattle truck crammed;
Cows, pigs, chickens, sheep
Crumpled, cramped and slammed
Inside pig pen in heap.
Some seated, standing room for most;
The pits! The sweated boast,
The grunt of sow,
The moo of sacred cow.
To market, black mark it!
Chatter of hens in chicken coop.
The written scoop of daily commute;
Standard, Metro gossip galore,
Fight tedium with closed eye snore!
Or stare at smart phone snare,
The portal, escape tunnel's light laid bare.
Long hot Summer days, the neighs,
The yays of Brexit bound.
The sound, the rattle of the cattle track.
The scent of Southern striking, soured, smacks
The livestock market death of rolling stuff.
Enough!
A sink hole drains the life,
Another daily strife;
With heavy air this stinking train,
And yes of course we're late again!