The Cold And The Coal

Elbows buff the brass lamps
They are as fine as any
In the half light they are great golden orbs
or, as now, a faint gilded edge on black
The men are in early
They pulled this engine from a river
It was heavy with silt
They burnished and rebuilt
On steaming days
she spits and hisses
There is a glow in the cab,
the shadow of a man,
a sheen on his brow
This is a rare pleasure;
encased fire, rough physics
When the great beast lurches
clanking, screeching
the driver and stoker lean out
to suck in the cold and the coal