A Railway township built early 1900s.
With Railway quarters provided.
The workshop to repair trains.
The railwayman’s job awaits.
My father the blue-collar worker.
A Railwayman from before marriage.
The workshop his place of work.
A railwayman his whole life long.
Tracks leading into the workshop.
Train engines, carriages and caboose.
As far and wide throughout the country.
To be repaired; to be serviced.
The whistle blows in the morning.
Sounding the start of a workday.
You hear the shrill for lunch and day’s end.
It resonates the heart of Railway life.
A Railway township during the sixties.
You’d see children outdoor in play.
Railway brats we called ourselves.
We, the children of tough railwaymen.
This Railway township long since gone.
My childhood home is no more.
It’s workshop a Theatre now.
The shrill of that last whistle a memory.
The railwaymen of an era long gone by.
My father, one such railwayman.
Strong and hardworking his whole life.
A railwayman right to the end.
By C.E. Pereira