Our railway is in the off season.
A whistle in the distance is more likely a P-way kettle,
fresh-brewed tea,
a volunteer’s hard-earned salary.
and if we dare risk it, a biscuit.
We’re all tea rooms and no traction.
But even so we have the miracle of steam,
the regular metal clink as spoon stirs in mug.
There is life behind the platform,
sandwiches and savouries and sweets,
and until the spring brings a weekend timetable,
This is the face of the railway an expectant world meets.
© 2026, Andrew Clayton
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