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