The Fiddly Yard

 

In Woodford Halse stands a Fiddly Yard, empty now of trains.

An uneasy breeze blows through trees and bird’s play flying games.

A noisy place in bygone days where stoker’s passed their time.

Cooking breakfast on their shovels, on engines from the Central Line.

 

Down at the station in Woodford Halse. A man got off a train.

He stayed on a farm near Knightly Hall, John Merrick was his name.

The station door is bricked up shut. Metal hinges mark the door.

Summer grass grows very strong near a vanished platform floor.

 

Gentle breezes along the line. Blow seeds from off a thistle.

Sometime when I lay in bed I hear. The ghost of a distant whistle.

The work was hard in the Fiddly yard. With engines shunting around.

Now only distant memories, of Richard Beeching can be found.

 

Sometimes I walk through the Fiddly yard and while away the time.

Thoughts of breakfast cooked on a shovels . How I wish that one was mine.

I often look at the brick built bridge, from the row of our little shops.

Then I wait close by a rail less line. For a train that never stops.

© Peter Coleman 2014

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