It stands as a memorial,
Ďtho itís rusty now and old,
memory of the freight train
is worth more to me than gold.
Once it was heard on the wind
from more than a mile away,
the whirling of its steel wheels
on tracks where they used to lay.
I can almost hear the whine
that the whistle used to make,
as it built a head of steam
for the hill down by the lake.
It was called midnight madness
when it came at night through town,
by those who said it woke them,
and in noise they thought would drown.
Now the moon and stars are out,
no more noise is left to hate,
unless bothered by the sound
from the busy interstate.
© Copyright 2006 Monty (UN: monty31802 at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
Monty has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
|Log In To Leave Feedback|