The train left with military precision

at twelve minutes past the hour.

The driver, so used to punctuality,

waited impassively for the station master’s

whistle to set him free like an eager greyhound

from the traps that bound him.

 

My bag was packed, half empty

having left behind part of my childhood

that would no longer fit within a so called adult world.

A name and number etched forever onto the surface of my skin

And peered at with frustrated,

Damning blue eyes.

 

I listen to the pounding force of the engine, growling in discount

And belching puffs of black, tar like, sweat, oven like smoke through

the countryside, the forests, the stripped back nature machine

in time with the sound of a million dragging dying feet.

 

The sound of order filters through and I

see the luxury second hand

of rock and roll in this tight congested semi breathing lung.

A soldier’s voice rings out and the rock and roll soon dies,

heavy breathing, the chance of life snuffed out

before it gets snuffed out.

 

The children I played amongst were already enjoying their new life,

so we were told.

Their eyes stared at me, a finger beckoning me through the uneasy air,

I heard a whistle come from ahead,

I snapped a salute to the soldier

before departing the train.

 

Ian D. Hall

Originally published under the title of A Farewell to A Military Man.  2004.