Those old engines reminded 

me of my grandfather  

in his final year: wheezing, 

tearful eyes, leaking water, 

tobacco-stained moustache, 

steam escaping everywhere.  

 

Granted, retaining some grand  

old dignity, but a shadow  

of their former selves.  

Heroes perhaps but this  

was the Sixties: the white heat 

of Harold Wilson, the Moptops, 

 

Julie Christie saying goodbye 

to all those black and white 

northern films, always  

a loco whistling in the distance, 

and jumping aboard 

the train to London.  

 

Ring roads, slum clearances,  

withdrawal east of Suez.  

No chuffing chance of staring  

at back gardens, washing lines. 

mixing with others 

in dusty, smelly carriages.  

 

Now everyone could have  

their own compartment. 

Jams still to come.  

Driving gloves, maps, difficult 

starts on cold mornings. Faith,  

hope and roadside AA vigils.