Rusty

Rusty whispers in the railway sleeper,
A slow sigh of iron breathing time,
Where once the locomotive’s fire sang bright,
Now muted hues of orange‑brown entwine.

The girders bow beneath a patient sky,
Their armour softened by relentless rain,
Each flake a memory of labour’s toil,
A quiet ode to decay’s soft refrain.

In abandoned yards the rustling wind
Plays a melancholy tune on corroded rails,
And though the metal yields to patient rust,
Its story lingers—still it never fails.

So let us cherish the patina of years,
The gentle stain that marks the passage,
For in the rust we see both loss and grace,
A British hue of endurance, unsurpassed.