We flew from town to town then on,
to station after station,
as iron men drove iron horses, building up a nation.
Atlantics, Berkshires, Challengers and mighty Big Boys
thunder,
Pacifics, Northerns, Santa Fes, sparked wonder after
wonder.
The singing of my thunderous voice a raucous eloquence,
I cleaved the mighty rushing wind with callous arrogance.
Within me raged a fire that borned the strength of
countless horses,
and when the reigns were slackened, lo, I loosed these
mighty forces.
I flew, a mighty tempest’s rage, as smoke and ash I
bellowed,
for now unchained, my drawbars strained and screaming
flanges echoed.
When those who worked the levers freed the demon’s
ire that could be,
the beasts of field did flee before the greater beast
within me.
At lesser trains I laughed, immortal, strength was my
atonement,
I flew my courses, never ending, living in the moment.
What scenes immortal! Never touched by fancied thoughts
of fleetness,
yet t’was a creeping, sad decay, that sour’d
the days of sweetness.
The masters of technology sound calls for intervention,
unheeded warnings, late remembered, strained for my
attention.
Within the hourglass what seemed like countless grains
unnumbered,
the thief of time did steal away, while in my stall I
slumbered.
One fateful day, the constant fire that burned within was
ended,
and given leave to slowly die, no stoker’s hand
attended.
I waited, breathless, yearning for the routine that I
knew,
yet no one came to stoke the breath of life within my
flue.
I moldered, wallowed, melancholy days of inattention,
while only watchman passed this way, with little
consolation.
I watched in muted resignation as my brethren illed,
to join me in the line of fallen soldiers silent,
stilled.
An endless line of diesels passed, with pride they
marched before us,
their shiny ranks the picture perfect, modern signs of
progress.
Yet even they will one day fall, the storms of time still
raging,
they too will show the signs of wear, for surely they are
aging.
Now tempest winds are stilled as playful noises ply the
breezes,
the sun the only warmth I know as time immortal freezes.
For I was spared the cutter’s torch and brought unto
this distant place,
where children in my shadow play, bucolic scenes before
my face.
Sometimes in silence, one will stand and gaze with rapt
attention,
I still, and yearn for one last spark of wondrous
recognition.
When challengers were swept before me, nothing else was
faster,
and old and young would dream to be the Iron Horse’s
master.
Tom Fassett Oct. 6, 2002
