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