The Old Line

Is a wedge in the side of a hill
Where young trees
Spread the rusting rails
While the scattered bolts & spikes
Wait quietly still
For the next steam train
(although it is late)
That must come through
The dark empty tunnel,
Scattering the bush rats

Its poisoned smoke
Drifting up to touch the clouds

Rae Desmond Jones
raedeejay raedeejay
66-70, M
Dec 14, 2012