When I was young
this town was small,
And farms and
row crops had their reign.
Each night I’d
wait by open sash,
To hear the
whistle of the train.
The scents the coastal breeze would bear,
Of citrus groves and of the sea,
Drift softly on the evening air,
O’er the moonlit
valley and down to me.
And when the
whistle of the train,
Would pierce the
evening’s silent veil.
It made me
grateful I was home,
A whistle stop
on an endless trail.
The doleful
whistle, the lonesome whistle,
Serenades the valley one and all.
Sings its
forgotten songs to us,
And subdues us
with its mournful call.
Now the town has
grown, and so have I,
And through the
years where’er I roam,
The whistle of a
distant train,
Will always be
the sound of home.
© John Greenwood 2008