Cambridge Station

Weeds grow
though the stones
by the train tracks,

It has been a generation
since trains rumbled here.
Few remember

the loud cry of the engines
or shrill cry of brakes
in the early mornings,

But the  rotting, rusting tracks
stand firm,
a reminder of journeys

past.
There is a station nearby,
no longer a place of coming and going.

Things are stored there.
Almost wanted things,
too valuable to abandon completely,

but not valuable enough to care for.
So they are left
in the old station like ghosts,

covered in dust.
Nothing quite fits here,
Journeys and stillness.

abandonment and hoarding. it is unsettling and
you are not sure
if you want to flee this place

or settle in and pull weeds.

About this poem

This one I wrote from a picture. I had no idea where I was going or even a phrase to begin the poem with. I just wrote. So I can come back later and try and figure out what I was saying, or perhaps you, dear readers, can do that for me.

The picture was taken last Friday in Cambridge, NY.

Tom