Black the Smoke

Black the smoke; it rises hard, against the driving rain.

The stationmaster swings the lamp, the whistle blows again.

Tear filled eyes, they search the ramp, I needed to believe,

This town was home, my life was here, but now it’s time to leave,

Memories they blur, the vision fades, the day is almost through,

The window to my yesterdays reflected in rear-view,

I cannot see what lay before; there is no turning back.

A certain destination, though, keeps train upon the track.

Further into darkness plows the rhythmic plunging steel.

The rocking rolling motion at the end of the final reel.

I lived and loved, I danced and sang, I saw the saga through.

“Then it was worth the ticket price, ” the old conductor knew.

I watched the other passengers who climbed aboard the train.

At Pleasant Hills and Hopewell, at Desert Butte, New Spain.

Faces hid by shadowed space, with whispered cries all lost

So quiet rode the candlelight, as all considered cost.

I closed my eyes, pursed my lips, and drifted into dream.

When I woke, the coach had stopped, the engine belching steam.

The old man came, then punched my card, said, “Boy, your stop is here.”

The platform rose, so I stepped off, and walked to face the fear.

Black the smoke; it rises hard, against the driving rain

The stationmaster swings the lamp, the whistle blows again

Tear filled eyes, they search the ramp, I needed to believe

Then there my father, and his father … smiled

“Welcome home boy, it’s time to leave.”