At Bewdley Station


They’re relics from a better time, when days were free from stress and strife,
And everything, it seems, was buffed and polished for its very life.
Great Western engines, red and green, with trims of brass, pull up in steam
Like blustered gents from times gone by, they snort and splutter, primp and preen,
Relax and let their corsets out, then burst their doors like buttonholes,
As passengers step down amongst the tubs of yellow marigolds.
Advertisements for Pears’ and Fry’s on metal plaques on every tension
Beam, watch Lyon’s waitresses in pinafores jump to attention,
Serving scones and treacle tart, as porters in their B.R. caps,
Wheel cases from the luggage room, and on the coal heaps, eager chaps
In waistcoats, with their sleeves rolled up, are slowly turning black with grime.
Here comes the half past three from Arley, dragging sleepers out of time.

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