Tuesday, June 7, 2016

Old Number Nine

Old Number Nine

Billowing puffs of carbon
Spewing from her throat
As she climbs the mountain
Straining, straining, straining
Then springs a fountain
On the downhill slope
Her mighty whistle dopplers
As she sounds a lonely note
Chugging slowly to her stop
At a station far remote
Steam pouring from her feet
She breathes heavily while she rests
She eats a mighty breakfast
Coal and water serves her best
Slowly her breaths increase
Under protest, her iron wheels creak
Soon enough momentum
Brings her to full speed
Her smoke trails behind her
Leaving her passage in the air
Miles of track before her
She follows without care

(C) April 3, 2008 by Terry Sutherland

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  1. Love your poem. Reminds me of the "Wabash Cannonball" which, incidentally used to run thru my town. It's preserved in Ft. Wayne, IN, and makes periodic runs west thru our town of Wabash, IN, and points west, turns around and comes back the next day. It's a thrill to go see her speed thru town and you can hear her coming for miles. :)

  2. Thanks Jim. I wanted to use the word 'doppler' and all I could think of was a train whistle.