The Railway Line That Was
With fires stoked and the giant steel wheels set into motion, the blazing red locomotive gained in momentum as it edged ever closer to me. I could sense it before it even arrived. A sharp, shrill whistle would startle the birds into silence as the tracks would rumble with anticipation and quake beneath the weight of that colossal machine, shaking me to my core. Eventually, the train would pass, leaving a stillness in its wake as the steamy tendrils of vapour remained like a heavy, hanging mist, until they would gradually fade like a memory.
That was then.
Now, nature has reclaimed what was once hers. The tracks that carried those magnificent contraptions are gone. Tall, mighty trees grow where gravelly edging once curtailed them. High above the path, the canopies mingle as rays of sunshine burst through, casting all who walk there in an ephemeral dappled glow that tells of a history that once was.
The smell of spring is in the air as flowers tentatively peak out from within the trees, flora and fauna, that lines the banks. Footprints crunch on dry, curling leaves where tracks used to be and the sweet sound of birdsong is broken only by the deep bark of an inquisitive dog.
I stand sentry, watching the world go by from my old railway line. I am a constant in a world that is compelled to move ever forward, for I am an ancient oak tree.
I was there.
I am here.