The Sleeping Engine

Iron bones settling into the damp earth, Vines trace the ghost of a sudden whistle, While the boiler breathes only moss and shadows. The tracks are gone, swallowed by ferns.

Once it tore through the quiet valleys, A roaring heart of fire and pressurized steam, Pulling the weight of a frantic century behind it. Now it sleeps in a cathedral of pines.

Small creatures nest in the ash pan, Spiders weave silver across the cloudy gauges, And the heavy rain drums a slow, patient rhythm Against the long-forgotten steel.