The humble Station that I can see,
Bares the insipid face of Modernity,
For the larger Town or City may,
Have Victorian flair to its display.
But here in Village or lonely Halt,
The Designer’s Craft is much at fault,
A ‘Prefab’ Box in all but name,
And metal seats complete the shame.
But in the grand old days of steam,
As a Poets eye had often seen,
Were Stations built in Grandiose Style,
Along the Veins of the British Isle.
‘Mock-Tudor’ built astride the line,
With adornments of a bygone time,
When across the Platform Porters fly,
Their loaded barrows rumbled by.
And ; keeping vigil down the Rail,
For the Whistles-howl and the Morning Mail.
To the ‘Waiting Room’ a traveler’s rest,
As ‘Vintage’ Posters do suggest,
‘See Britain By Train’ a short invite,
Art Deco scenes of radiant light.
All works of art, a bright display,
Of the ‘Yorkshire Dales’ or ‘Whitley Bay’.
And Station Master watch in hand,
Surveys his lot, Prepared And Manned.
For here’s the Engine spouting steam,
A Thundercloud upon the scene.
So; nothing is left from those Romantic days,
A time of Elegant,travelling ways.
A time when Rolling Country-Wide,
Was joy itself when Steam applied.
For the ‘Golden Age As often classed ,
Were days of Grace now sadly passed.
But as for Modern Stations as per se,
I’m sure ‘Sir John’ would have his say.