An ancient ghost of a train rattles across rusted rivets
It sings on the tracks of work once done
Of houses just built, ready to house, to feed
Of families out in the street on Sundays

The train runs infrequent now
The buildings losing paint like an old man losing hair
Orange has sunken into the colors, rusting
A lonely bus pulls up on the dead street

On the other side of the train bridge
There anchors another of concrete, cool, grey
Shaking, vibrating, strutting its load
Four lines of racing death, headed back and away

Beyond bridge two lays Quiet, sleeping
Napping away under ancient soldier trees
Soldiers alert in their blue and white passing every five
Keeping the rust away from the hedgerows

Here shine the towering houses
Armoured against poverty by their stained glass
They chose here for the lake
Waves crash on their back porches

Two bridges
Two budgets
Two cities
One soil