“She’s a lassie,” cried ma granny,
glarin at ma dad.
“Whit she wanted wis a dolly,
no a Triang train, ma lad.”
But the ingine wi’ its carriage,
an’ its shiny smokin stack,
meant sweet oors wi’ ma daddy
as we raced it roon the track.
Pentit fields, cahoochy trees,
a matchstick watermill.
The station wi’ its signal box,
we cried it Corkerhill.
“There ma faither had his ingine,”
Mither smiles as she recalls.
“He drove thon train tae London
in the years atween the Wars.”
Ma’s stories o’ the chapper-up
wha roused them frae their beds;
the breathy wheeze o’ smoke an’ steam,
wi’ shunters in the Sheds;
The bath-hoose in the Institute,
that helped the weans tae thrive;
Kick the Can oot in the Square.
They brocht thon toy alive.
Noo it sits in silent splendour
wi’ Ma’s Dresden china dolls,
a relic o’ a childhood
that nane but me recalls.
Copyright © Catherine Lang 2015
Catherine Lang has enjoyed creative writing since her teens and is a founder member of the Ayrshire female writers’ group, LiterEight.