Thunder On The Line

He works alone now,
hands puffed and slow.
He stands rod-stiff,
trousers buckling at the hem.
He is at the carriage,
unlocking its secrets.
It is old as he
and out of service.
Here, they judge him well;
he lent a hand when no-one would.
His pals were there, too -
and just as age-worn.
This is their life now:
fixing the track, polishing the brass.
They love steam’s power,
to hear thunder on the line.