I walked these tracks
a hundred lengths in full,
always hoping I'd see a familiar face.

Behind me, they grew longer,
warped in the haze, and evaporated.
The next day, they were back,
like they had never left.
But I knew different.

Rust had eaten everything in sight,
save for the signal house
and the flickering cross light
that managed to survive the cull.
But nobody comes this way, anymore.

I left my diary by the side of the track,
in case any wanderer might happen upon it.
I wait by the phone,
but it has nothing to say.
And sunday comes again.