The Sunlander is Coming

[Mal McLean]

I guess those who know will know.

THE SUNLANDER IS COMING.

Roma Street. Then suburbs pass.
Piles of sleepers. Uncut grass.
Stations neath a cloche of glass;
a feast upon my table.

Scraping by in corridors
thinly made with smallish doors,
carpets run the walls and floors
to endings at the windows.

Pillows on the luggage rack.
Wear and tear. A tiny crack.
Red arm rests are turning black.
The smell of use and caring.

Water suitable to drink.
All the drops are precious: think!
Suitcase down beside the sink,
a drop-down stainless basin.

Sharp Disposals! In the loo
foreign objects will not do,
paper only please, and you!
A slot: dry refuse only.

Stairs that rise the cuttings side
disappear, what do they hide?
Sunset’s sinking like a tide.
The countryside is changing.

Gympie North is on the right.
Heading off toward the night.
Drop the bunk down, what a sight!
The promise of an odd sleep.

Strata through the cuttings cost
epochs of the past, now lost.
Brahmans leave a soft riposte.
The Theebine pub is passing.

Open fields and grazing land.
Dams and holes. An old tank stand.
Down line rolling up as planned.
A freight train on a siding.

Shunting limit! Warning Sign!
Roly poly, cross the line.
Ants nest squatting seems benign
but, ‘DANGER ’ in the cables!

Tiaro rail yards slowly pass.
Ancient cranes are gripped by grass.
Bogies, sleepers, rails and glass
lie scattered in the wreckage.

Cane fields standing tall by strip.
Wide Bay-Burnett on the slip.
Auto wreckers at the dip
near Maryborough station.

Loss of light is losing me,
flicking ghosts, a flitting tree,
deeper darks where forests be
as dusk at last surrenders.

Red lights flashing by at night.
Crossings lit with yellow light.
Bundy rolling into sight.
A chance to stretch a long limb.

Night rolls up the narrow line,
Gladstone, Rocky, Proserpine,
sunrays etch the morning shine
as earth and sky are purging.

Grinding curves and scouring brakes,
whistle blasts and rattling shakes,
clicks and clacks the rolling makes;
acoustics of the railway.

Cardwell has a sullen yard,
bits of houses brought down hard,
Yasi played a bitter card
with homes and lives in tatters.

Now abandoned old farm sheds,
rooftops stained to rusty reds,
tank stands standing on their heads;
the facts of life in Queensland.

Jungle squeezes ‘round the line,
overgrown with twisting vine,
straining on a steep incline,
then coasting to the seaboard.

Mileposts marking off the day,
engines humming time away,
singing to the North to say:-
“The Sunlander is coming.”

© M M (Mal) Beveridge 3/3/13

[Maureen K Clifford]

I keep promising myself I'll do that trip one day Mal you see so much more from a train. Great poem very descriptive - well done/

I don't know why but as I am reading I am hearing the tune of Mannies - Clair de Lune - go figure

[Glenny Palmer]

Watch him Maureen! He could have snuk into your broom cupboard. The lengths some folk go to in order to promote....

[Heather]

The short lines and sentences are really suitable for this poem. You can imagine the flashes of images from the window as you travel past.

Good one Mal.

Heather

[alongtimegone]

Loved it Mal. Brought back some pleasant memories. My wife and I travelled to Cairns on the Sunlander a couple of years ago and returned a week later on the Queenslander. We promised ourselves that we'd do it again sometime. I didn't hear Clair de Lune Maureen, more like 'When Johnny Comes Marching Home.'

the men will cheer the boys will shout
the ladies they will all turn out
And we'll all feel gay
When Johnny comes marching home.


Scraping by in corridors
thinly made with smallish doors,
carpets run the walls and floors
to endings at the windows.

Wazza

[Mal McLean]

Thanks all. Glad you liked it. I wrote it in draft form on the Sunlander in January and put it together, with a little help from a friendly critic, in March. It isn't ever going to be a competition poem so I thought I should share it here and see if I can stir up some old memories of train travel. The Sunlander is in danger of disappearing as it isn't profitable (who ever said state run transport has to not be subsidised should be shot) so we should commit our poems and stories to paper while we have the opportunities and the memories.

Mal