At close to midnight I find a spot near the railway gate;
Had it taken any longer I likely would be late.
Must sign on. I pass through loco sheds under high arc lights.
North Queensland’s hot and sticky right throughout these summer nights.
My job there is cleaner but I won’t be cleaning tonight
Nor tending fires, I’m notifying - much to my delight.
I let crews know of altered starts before they come on shift;
This can mean a longer sleep so I bring a welcome gift.
I don’t use the railway pushbike; instead I use my car,
Then I can get my head down as the journeys aren’t too far.
After I tried a few places the sand shed proved just right;
The engine workshop was no good – I saw a rat one night.
Sandy’s foreman for tonight, from the office he’s in touch;
Like Roddy on the last shift he won’t lean on us too much.
(They’re mostly office bound, so one cleaner was quite crafty
His engine passed by the office cleaned on that side only).
As old railway men these blokes have gathered their little quirks.
Roddy wants the wheel rods clean then will sometimes do spot checks;
Sandy insists sandboxes are full – and he checks with crews;
So the way they gained their monikers isn’t startling news.
A gently hissing locomotive readied by its crew:
An injector howls to life and feeds the boiler it’s due,
The white cloud of steam envelops this iron horse ahead
Black smoke signals its exit as it backs out from the shed.
Use ‘til early sixties is due to local conditions;
Flood prone areas just north dictate these operations.
A steamer with a high dry firebox will make it right through,
Water in diesel electric motors acts just like glue.
These were good times in the sheds despite my resignation;
It could not be anyway a long term occupation,
As diesel after all did send these old relics away;
Though I’ve a lingering love for them even to this day.