Memento

Memento
by Eamon Grennan 

Scattered through the ragtaggle underbrush starting
   to show green shoots 
lie the dark remains of rail sleepers napping now 
   beside the rusted-out wreck 

of a Chevy that was once sky-blue and now is nothing 
   but shattered panels and
anonymous bits of engine in the ditch by a path that 
   was once a railway line 

cut between small hills whose silence hasn't been 
   broken by the rattle and 
lonesome-blown whistle of a train for fifty years and 
   whose air hasn't filled 

for ages with my childhood's smell (set by Seapoint on 
   the coastal line) of coal 
smoke and hot steam puffed up in great cloud-breaths 
   out of a black-sooted chimney.

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