No one goes up Old Gig Road.
It leads to a siding.
Rotted timber hangs over its edge.
A century ago, women in bonnets alighted.
A rail track curled up from the town.
There was a stationmaster, smart in black.
He wore a waistcoat, a watch on a chain.
Much was planned:
a town, great mills to process grain
flailed from swaying yellow stalks.
Coal was hewn from the hill –
with shining lamps.
Then no one wanted coal;
the grain went on lorries.
Even now, there are no gigs