Poem: The Old Stage

The Old Stage

The heavy doors swing back with iron grace,
A diesel heartbeat rumbles on the stone,
She takes her corner at the market place,
An elder stateswoman, retired and lone.

The destination blind still shows the coast,
Through scratched blue glass where rainy shadows fell,
Of all the fleet, she was the people’s boast,
When every passenger knew the driver well.

The ticket machine clicked out its paper prize,
While conductor’s bell rang sharp above the din,
Now silent under grease and heavy skies,
With ghosts of travellers still tucked within.