POETRY

The whistle blows,

the conductor grins,

the people board,

the train ride begins.

 

Through the tunnel and over the bridge,

up the mountain and along the ridge.

Over the rail winds the super skunk,

a ghost from the past, historical funk.

 

Rocking gently to and fro,

moving fast, moving slow.

Coming  closer, there she goes

listen to the whistle blow.

 

In the dale, in the glen,

there she goes around the bend.

Stopping now, moving on,

look again and she'll be gone.

 

Rambling along the stream,

Nature's birthright, man's dream

Pristine beauty land of green,

northing is as it seems.