Stand well back.
The round-faced dragon comes
in a fog of black and fulgurous fume,
puffing along the track.
Four adults,
four children,
vie for a carriage to ourselves.
Hands grab us.
Lifted off the smoky platform,
scrambling onto scratchy seats,
a grater to tender knees,
to get a window seat.
Turning round, sitting nice,
a tantalising leather strap
greasy with use
holds the smutty windows safely shut.
Officious guard
struts his stuff,
banging doors,
sealing us in.
The whistle blows,
the train chuffs out
billows of black soot and dust
funnel back along the carriages.
Can we open the window yet?
Stretch little hands into open country?
Watch the curve of line behind?
Count quick, receding telegraph poles?
Gaze on the patchwork Ulster greens?
Shout hello to sheep and cows?
Not too far out!
There was a wee lad stuck his head right out,
had it whipped clean aff his shouders
wi’ a railway bridge, so he did.
Split open like a melon, so it did.
Are we there yet?
Ballymoney, Coleraine.
Station stop. Does anyone need to ‘go’?
Then the Port — Portrush.
And there’ll be Barry’s Amusements,
candyfloss, ice cream,
salad sandwiches, salty crisps,
buckets, spades,
sandcastle moats full of frothy sea,
an endless day and home again,
asleep to the rhythm of the train.
And there’ll be a long walk home
past the Memorial Park in May,
the late heady scent of warm wallflowers
and all a fog of sooty memories.
