An Ode to the Class 455

My final ride on the Class 455

With face of yellow and blue, angular and bold

A body full of mold and so old.

I hear the rhythmic hum beneath the floor

The camshaft’s click, the compressor’s steady beat.

Oh what a delight to ride on a 455 once more

Crammed to the doors, forced onto my feet.

Rushing through the dark of the London night

Bathed in the hum of its yellow light.

The brakes give a squeal and a heavy sigh

As the ghosts of the suburbs go rattling by.

No velvet cushion or tearful goodbye

Just iron and oil and a soot-colored sky.

A relic of steel from a different age

Writing its final page.