Do I risk it for the junket?
Is there a biscuit, can I dunk it
Pour the Rosy Lee
That means a cup of tea
That’s funny, I must have drunk it.

A smile shines upon a face
Cracked and parched by the sun
Blistered feet trek in the heat
Carrying water for everyone.
Three hours daily they walk
To a watering hole ***** and crude
Yet still he smiles having no choice
But to bring water to cook food.
Foreigners arrive to lay new pipes
Hope lies now on a wrinkled face
Water gushes from a shiny tap
Drenching life into a dismal place.
Children scream with delight and joy
Sadly they have never splashed before
Tears well in the foreigner’s eye
A shiny tap now means so much more.
A new smile shines upon a face
Pleased that the work has been done
Blistered hands applaud in the heat
At long last the children can have fun.

Pushing, trying to go forward
cogs turn in the brain
strolling bravely in the mud
murky water goes down the drain.

I open the window
the mist rolls in off the sea
sweeping like a fluffy blanket
pity hasn't keep the sea warm
there is no horizon, it's the same
just white, misty vision.
The air is biting
so cold it stings my skin
rushing in like an unwelcome visitor
there is no horizon it's the same
just a milky opaque sight.
The beam from the lighthouse
sprays LED sparkles on the waves
it dances with the movement of the sea
jigging, squirting froth forward
ebbing and flowing
coming and going.
There is a distance in the air
a quiet , a silence now.
The atmosphere changes
brightens, clouds are apparent
moving, clearing,
and out comes the sun.

If a rabbit had its mind set
to play a game of cricket.
No doubt it would wear its whites
standing in front of the wicket.

If fish had fingers
and ten little toes
and if they had a tissue
they could blow their little nose.

To me there was never any drawback
it was just simply child's play
looking back down the old track
it was a typical British railway.

It was just brilliant in its heyday
chugging along with a smokestack
through tunnels and the odd archway
I can safely say I never looked back.

All those hard workers on the payroll
leaving memories along the track
spending all day shovelling coal
everything they wore and owned black.

Some days their breath dried and they cried
from the young lad to the station guard
but they all had something called pride
even though their memory's were all scarred.

The whistle could be heard "all aboard"
and off it would go chugging
the steam puffed and the engine roared
regardless of the carriages it was tugging.

Through every village an every vale
it relentlessly ploughed
along each track and each trail
leaving its white fluffy cloud.

Travelling along tootling down
from hill to hill down the track
from coast to each and every town
and I never looked back.