Husband, signalman, he’ll be home soon,
carrying the noon whiff of Brasso-clean levers,
fusty yellow dusters, faintly grey.
Soft golden cloths
shine the upright handles.
He covers every angle,
a bright mirrored shrine.
Polly Robinson © 2015
My father was a signalman. So this week, as dVerse Poetics ask us to write about trains, this poem came to mind – a sort of homage to my dad. Hop on board.