Photo by Eric Adriaans
Scene 1
Old engine 5700 sits solid and quiet As winter snow drifts and glides down. Ceaselessly down. This town is more than two hundred years old But nobody seems to notice the history standing silent in the air. 5700’s massive boiler sits hollowed, humbled; empty in the empty yard Black and green. Militarily austere. Her working days long dead. And the town hustles along, quietly losing its history. Maybe we’re all too busy, too tired or too hungry to care. 5700. Exposed. Frozen. Standing with a gaudy tour car bundled in a tarp; Green. Cold. Tiny hints of summertime thrills peek out From the gawker-car’s shawl. Remembering disposable income spent on… ...What? Maybe history. Receding from memory in a seasonal burial. 5700 hunches under the pristine white power of a cellular tower Beaming communications around the globe – through space and time. 5700 glares down the tracks past the BX tower from whose windows You can’t see the future, only a bloody century’s war memorial And a vacant lot, still haunted by memories of the Sutherland Press Whence issued biscuits, chocolates, tobacco boxes and paper products; Now just another main-street vacancy, idled for an indefinite future Whether an hour, a year or a decade. The mean times' homilies. Further on, the Old St. Thomas Church sits emptied but of trees and graves The voices of the annual carol perhaps still resonating a quiet tradition Though the caroling is done, the cider done, the tarts and cookies gone I seem to hear the old bell's toll, toll, tolling of years and families. And I’m staring out this window as winter comes floating down A vibrant colouring of history lays at my feet This yard once radiated the smoke and power of young industries Radiates now through twists of optic fibres carrying my voice I want to clamber over that blue fence there blocking access to 5700 Keep off. The tangible past is off limits. But, I want to embrace two hundred years of history churning forward still I want to chuff chuff chuff down the tracks to live and rejoice Instead, my voice smokes down the fibre optics To New York. Vancouver. New Orleans. Chicago. Wherever. Plastic and glass. Digital memories of 5700 and parallel rails This place, this work and its ghosts sitting at town's heart after 200 years The spirit of the community boils along, though 5700 sits frozen And the wind that blasts down the long avenue No longer carries shrieking steam-whistles nor billowing coal smoke The past long-yielded to the demands of new electronic frontiers. The locomotive idles in the quietly piling winter snow And the past has never been closer at hand. In another few hours I’ll crunch crunch crunch along the cold streets To home, warm with family and filled with the promise of a New Year.
