long time dead

 autumn, always a strange time, a time of mellowness and a time for reflection, russett browns and gold, black-spot, leaf mould, falling leaves and short days, hard frost, muddy paths, muddy dogs and ruddy berries, when i was young i had no time for old people, their memories, their stories, their observations, 'look at the colours, look at the colours of autumn' i'm too busy for that old man,  i'm young and i've invented everything, music, motorcycles, love, sex, drugs, dancing and good times, i have no time for your stupid look at the world old man, i'm far too busy for all that, too busy to just stop, look and take it all in. i was the same once, no time for the old peoples story's of how life used to be, too busy, you are old, you don't matter, what do you know? and now? as i'm approaching the autumn of my life i realise that i didn't invent diddly-squat, everything i have ever experienced has been experienced before, there's nothing new on the planet, you know what? i really wish i'd been more patient and listened to what people told me, listened to their tales and gained knowledge from them instead of just dismissing them as boring old duffer's, truth be told the 'boring old duffer's' just might be able to teach us something if we took the time to listen, as i walked down the old railway line today with my dog's i realised that, the steady pant of two jack russell terriers, the crunch of a too coarse aggregate under foot, walking underneath a leaden, derbyshire sky, rust never sleeps, as i walked past the old railway 'ganger's' brick built shelter i stopped, i must have walked past this building a thousand and one times, today i stopped, i went inside and i saw ghosts, ghosts of big, thick set manual workers, this was their shelter from the cold and wet, the stove and chimney long gone, just a hole in the roof now, i can see the ghosts, sid and bert and tommy and mick, laughing and cursing, newspaper on the table, thickly cut 'doorstep' white bread sandwiches, the warmth of the stove, a big, brown, enamel tea-pot, thick, strong, sweet tea drunk from chipped, white enamel mugs, the smell of wet donkey jackets, sweaty feet and toast, burps and farts, i wonder if they ever thought it would end? it did of course, the railways were nationalised, this line served the pits after that, the passenger trade long gone, at least until mrs thatcher had her way and beat the miners into submission and the pits shut forever, now?  well, like everything, what goes around comes around, the old gangers refuge is home to graffiti artists, discarded beer bottles and roaches cover the floor, rizla packets, smashed lighters, how many pre-pubescent teen's have had their first kiss here? their first joint? their first beer? 'old man, look at my life, i'm a lot like you were, old man look at my life, i'm a lot like you were'