Model Railways

On a shelf of pine and gentle light,
A miniature world takes shape each night—
Where tin‑plate rails hum in steady beat,
And tiny locomotives find their street.

Points swing open like polite gates,
Set for the express or the slow freight;
Turnouts whisper, “All aboard, please wait,”
While signal arms blink their cautious fate.

Scenic hills of plaster, moss and tree,
Tiny stations with their chimney‑free;
A village halts where children wave,
A level crossing, guards both brave.

Rolling stock in livery gleam—
BR green, crimson, or a modest cream—
Couplers click, the buffers kiss,
Each carriage hums a soft‑spoken bliss.

The timetable lies in careful hand,
Minutes measured, yards of sand;
A shunter shunts, a guard does call,
“All clear!” the whistle’s mellow call.

In gauges O, N, or the cherished HO,
The world contracts, yet hearts still glow—
For every modeller, young or old,
Finds empire in a story told.

So here we build, with patience, care,
A realm of steel and whispered prayer—
Where imagination runs on rail,
And Britain’s spirit never fails.