The closure of a station and its line has often done far more than just make people use the bus or get a car. It sometimes rips the heart out of a place.

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It was once a hive of industry,
With silk mill and sep’rate weaving house.
Now just a weekend dormitory,
As quiet as the proverbial mouse.

There had been a small village station,
That connected with London and Thame.
Shop and Pub thrived in their location,
The three playing an interlinked game.

Mill shut first, weaving house became Pub.
When the station closed so did the shop,
Whilst the Inn turned to selling posh grub.
But the Brewery gave it the “chop”.

Stood by the disused rail crossing gate
Were just the local Postman and me.
We broke the Village’s dormant state,
No other sign of life could you see.

“When I was just a lad” said the Postman,
“My dad used to catch the same Thame train.
At night my sis’ and me like doormen,
Waited for Dad to come home again.”

“We’d watch the train come in and then hide.
Dad went from the Station straight to the Inn
To get a quick pint in his inside,
And bag of crisps: penance for his sin.”

“See; we’d meet him coming out the bar,
He would give us the crisps as a sop.
They'd be eaten before we’d gone far
Then the story of late train we’d prop.”

“When Dad died the truth it came to light.
Said Mum smiling through tear stained eye,
“Your happy faces were a delight.
The sneaked pint was your Dad’s only lie.””

The Postman added, “Mum knew of course.
You can’t have secrets in a village.
Now I look around full of remorse
See nothing but time’s pointless pillage”

He then went off to deliver post,
Leaving me once again on my own.
The feeling haunting me the most
Was that life’s only out on short loan.


JG