The wheel in my mind grinds
Like an old diesel engine
On this bygone train through time
On a track toward Devil's Den
A dining car window my lens
Dense forests are painted with gold
Oranges like pumpkin and reds
O'er lichens and boulder mold
And the oak wood smoke a ghost
Suspends in the autumn wood
Damp earth 'neath wet compost
And a deer ruin where they stood
The conductor blasts the stack
As we wobble to a stop
Squeaky rails, coal hills pitch black
And my heart on the mountaintop

Written by Sara Fielder © Oct 2013