She rides in with the coachmen, dray horses well-trimmed as a thoroughbred leading the charge, cylinders throbbing like shodden hooves upon the cobblestones in a great pounding of the earth under blasting exhaust boiling forth towards the heavens, broken only with the blare of trumpets announcing her arrival; a symphony of steel, where forged meets rolled, and the whirring of roller bearings is punctuated with the familiar SPANG! of flanges and the creak and groan of bolsters and springs under great duress as the lading sways and weight is transferred; and as the coachmen reign in their charges, the clank of knuckles and drawbars as the slack gently runs in on the downgrade; the whine of dynamic brakes fading off in the distance as the last wisps of her perfume drift away on the warm and damp morning breezes, carrying with them the dust of a thousand places that you’ve never been.
You watch her, baubles stacked high and fading into the shimmering distance, in awe of her form and of her glory, and you long for that day when once again on the wind you hear her chants, and amongst her fragrance there is a quickening of heart.
But, she rides with the coachmen---
And they do not stop for the paupers.