Trains

I
Rattling across Guatemalan fields
- gift of President Grant –
this railway carriage,
fading green paint eighty years old,
with wooden seats and hurricane lamps,
pot bellied stove still in place -
passenger putting heel on floor and
toe to wall, pushing slightly,
watches sleepers rush beneath.

II
Monthly train ride to ‘grandmamma’,
Grand Trunk station, high ceiling oaken rafters,
and the lingering smell of coal;
the route all fields and small towns.
The same route now all Rust Belt and slum housing.
Was it like that in my childhood,
did I not see for innocence?

III
Four times up and four time back
the daily wood chip train –
twenty-three flatcars and two engines,
hauling logs to the port for chipping;
ripping out the coups in distant valleys
where tourist cannot see and complain –
the timber lords do not listen anyway.

IV
Hotham Valley Tourist Railroad –
steam train once a year
down to countryside for Apple Festival,
blowing steam and sooty sparks –
banned from southlands except at Eastertide,
for fear of starting fires in the timber –
disgorging tourists for half a day,
then takes them up again and toots away,
whistle blowing, tourists waving;
and we all happy with the dollars left behind.

V
Milk Train –
took twelve hours from village to city.
Doesn’t run now, post-war
macadam roads brought trucks.
Railroad tracks still in place, jarrah trestles too,
crossing farms and dissecting forests.
Once I fossicked in the empty field that
held the loading platform,
found a copper British Penny –
“1894” it says –
one man’s wage another’s hobby.

VI
Follow the track ‘cross endless Wheatbelt -
count the sidings, loading platforms,
grain silos, level crossings,
each a measure of farmers’ hopes.
Four times a week it runs this route,
up from city, through the forest,
then the wheaten plain and on into desert
for whistlestops; and then Kalgoorlie and the Golden Mile.
When comes harvest – train upon train rumbles slowly
down this line, bound for ships to feed the world.

VII
Old steam engine pulling carriages
and caboose through the second-growth woods.
I watched as the thrusting pistons
turned the massive wheels, 2-4-2 configuration.
Understanding then why 19th Century America
believed in Manifest Destiny;
all that heady, raw, motive - and emotive - power,
able to be harnessed to their dreams.



James Gagiikwe © 2007