Echoes of their Shadows

Grey exhaust overwhelms a clear sky,

the discordant clickety-clack,

metal on metal, distance rectifies.

Invading silent, sylvan meadows,

darkness engulfs all of life’s colours.

The convoy of carriages sprint through a tunnel,

sourcing the echoes.

Repulsive light burns through the night,

illuminating the countryside.

Their blaze white as snow, spreading like wildfire,

with no end in sight.

During the day, the train parades

away further from their homes. They travel

in the night, out of sight from

passing villages as the memory fades.

In cramped spaces they pray,

hope not yet lost, keeping their worries at bay.

The trees form an archway over the rail

as the train arrives closer to the end.

The branches wave in the breeze, leaves

falling, as autumn causes summer to fail.

Weary bodies move in an orderly line,

measuring, separating, forming into groups.

Names are forgotten. Forgotten faces insignificant.

Only numbers remembered as their identifying sign.

On the return, the train cars are lighter,

travelling slowly home as the numbers travel

to a place where the sky is much brighter.