I called him Uncle Dai



/ steam

on the footplate as a boy


Turning to Uncle Dai I wanted to speak

Motes flew sticking to his hat, greasy
and soot blackened. Third generation 
drivers hat made from good dirt.

Embers, hot, stole the air from lungs.
They orange stars underfoot so
surely had the tunnel transported
us to the Southern hemisphere.

Steam and boiling water releasing
valves, driving pistons after clanging
gates. Ruled over all and any

That single silence born on the
flash of ivory in the fireman's 
face. Son of the driver. To
I playing role of grandson 
to follow

Dai's dar something in
the smoke.
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There's more where that came from!