From A Railway Carriage
If you take the same train journey time and time again,
It can end up seeming to be incredibly boring and plain.
But if you sit back and look out of the carriage window,
The list of things that you can see will grow and grow.
Newly built apartment blocks, reach way up to the sky;
From their balconies, their owners watch trains pass by.
A playing field is dotted with birds searching for bugs.
On station platforms, family and friends exchange hugs.
In cemeteries, of inscribed headstones there are endless rows.
Between disused railway tracks, many tall weeds now grow.
By Woking Station, there are huge piles of gravel.
On the platform, there are passengers on their travels.
I see young children at play in school playgrounds,
But, due to the noise of the train, I can’t hear the sounds.
At many stations, there are large advertising hoardings.
Trains, at the platforms, the passengers are now boarding.
We pass office and factories on large industrial estates.
At a level crossing, a queue of traffic patiently waits.
I pass the famous Sandown Park Racecourse,
But, as yet, I’ve never actually seen a horse!
I see many a church sporting an ornate spire.
In their back garden, someone’s just lit a fire.
Some old buildings have been left to go to rack and ruin.
The dark, grey clouds in the sky indicate a storm is brewing.
In gardens, I spot many swimming pools and trampolines.
On rivers and lakes, ducks and swans enthusiastically preen.
As London draws closer, there are less and less green fields;
The proximity of the shops, offices and houses slowly builds.
On their final descent to Heathrow, are many planes.
Helping to construct new buildings, are many cranes.
In the distance, I spy the Crystal Palace transmitter.
Along the track, I’m annoyed to spot a lot of litter.
Closer to London, there’s graffiti on nearly every wall;
By artistic hooligans, this vandalism has been caused.
Over the rooftops, I spot an ornate, light green dome;
Like you would find in the cities of Oxford or Rome.
En route to London, I’ve passed many a busy golf course.
At Clapham Junction, the train spotters are out in force.
I arrive at Waterloo, having finished my game of I-spy
And am now much more aware of the things I passed by.
poem by Angela Wybrow
Added by Poetry Lover
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