Signally boxed

 

Signally boxed

You pull this leaver and a weight swings in the basement 

and the signal moves.

You pull this lever - ‘it’s hard mind!’ - and a big weight swings in the basement 

and the points change. 

That’s what the man said;

with the dark trousers, waistcoat and gold chain, and flannel shirt. 

The mutton cloth hung on the shining brass handles and release lever. 

This was not the main line guarded by this signal box, mind,

but a branch line for saddle tanks; opposite the marshalling yards, 

just up from the engine sheds and the turntable. 

There was a fire, and a teapot, and a table. 

A phone from an old film, wound by a handle that eats your words through a spout. 

A box that dings with red and green droppers in peepholes. All polished. 

A long set of clean windows with a walkway around the outside 

where the signal man hands the key to the driver;

held in a leather pouch on a big arm-ring for the capture. 

Shining from hands. 

Bang!!

Said the percussion caps strapped to the line. 

They tell the train driver in a fog that the signal is red,

that’s what the man said; with the sandwiches,

dropping crumbs on the wooden floor in front of the hearth.

Different colours they were, the signal levers. 

Meant something, but I’ve forgotten now.

It had a name on the front, that signal box,

"Upper Bank" it was

between Pentrechwyth and Cwm.

That’s where I left it

my childhood,

somewhere between Pentrechwyth and Cwm,

still waiting for the signal to change.