Eastleigh train depot,
Abandoned and brown.
Home to old carriages with
Names like Sea Urchin
Printed on their stomachs
In faded yellow paint.
Gardens grow in the
sleepers,
For they have slept for too
long;
And then we pass
Through Botley
With its fern leaves and
Blackberry trees
And the old railroad
Which runs like a ghost
Alongside our train
window.
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