On track at Fallódon

The train on its iron track 

cuts straight and like a knife

through Fallódon.

The frequent sound of speed, of pace

disturbs the peace, but not the place,

with all its heritage.

The passengers on board 

travel in a faster, quicker world 

far from Fallódon’s fields,

not noticing the landscape,

                                 or the distant yet adjacent sea.

City-bound, they journey - unstudied

by the patient, waiting cars 

held at the level crossing

where once life halted at the station 

built for the Fallódon Estate.

Those days have gone

but life today goes on 

around the long, straight track:

cattle, sheep and crops, and woodland too,

play out a pattern not much changed

since the founding of Fallódon.

These sometimes famous trains 

provide a link - to other lands 

and peoples, and to other times.  

The modern Flying Scotsman,

hurtling through Fallódon,

tells of other means of locomotion:

electrified, no longer powered 

by steam or even diesel.

The thrust of power means little.

Speeding north or south,

whether to times gone by, or times to come.

Here at Fallódon, or at a place

with any other name,

the track we’re on, our journey -

and our destination – is the same.