Stretches of rusty old railway run along the new,
Tarnished from lack of use and the effect of morning dew.
The worn old sleepers the colour of tar,
Squashed from the weight of an old train car.
A discarded piece of train sits quietly alone,
Sadly lost, dishevelled, and without a loving home.
Litter peppers the stony ground,
Old footballs, and rubbish by the pound.
Here and there grow tall green grasses,
Knocked by every train that passes,
The gentle breeze buffets the weeds,
Growing along the lines from Leeds.
The sun highlights the rusty red lines,
Which must have once seen much better times,
This is not found on a pretty postcard,
A desolate industrial graveyard.
A poem i wrote for my Creative Writing class at university and which was submitted as part of a portfolio.