This poem has been written with huge apologies to WH Auden. Any images that it conjures up while you are reading it are best viewed in black and white.
This is the fast train taking us closer
To the capital city just over the border
Engine belching smoky brown
Pulling away from Morpeth town
The silver streak is gripping the track
The poor at the front, the rich at the back
Carriages filled, every seat taken
Travellers check their reservation
People at work, people at play
Some for a week and others a day
Faster and faster she builds her speed
You pull out a book and start to read
Business men study their laptops and papers
While elderly couples chat with their neighbours
The trolley passes and you pull in your feet
Coffee, tea or something to eat
Rushing past fields of turnips and sheep
Through river valleys wide and deep
Heathered moors and open spaces
Past golden dunes and coast she races
Then slower and slower her speed starts to drop
Until she crawls to her scheduled stop
Over the viaduct to Berwick station
Straddling two countries but still one nation.
A moments rest, the passengers changing
Slam the doors, the station staff waving
The driver sees him and hears the whistle
The engine roars as he opens the throttle
The couplings clank as they take the strain
And speeding up we’re off again.
This is the fast train taking us closer
To the capital city this side of the border
The train is busy, new passengers stand
Waxed paper cups of coffee in hand
Now close enough to commute each day
A thousand souls on the permanent way
Bass Rock is seen upon the horizon
Passed Torness nuclear power generation
Burnmouth, Ayton, Reston, Grantshouse,
Seagull, blackbird, kestrel and grouse
Dunbar, she turns her back to the east
And in the distance is Arthur’s Seat
The outer reaches of the capital city
Beautiful, proud, grimy and gritty
Slowing past shops and houses and churches
Crawling now the carriage lurches
Over switches and points to sidings
And lines for different destinations
The train now arriving at platform seven
While the clock in the foyer says ten to eleven
The engine gives up its forward motion
And the people spill out onto Waverley station.
Thoughts from a Guerrilla Worker 