my poem about trains

Children look out of the open window,

As the train starts,very slow,

The paint is fresh,the windows shine,

And cloudy grey smoke billows over her spine.

As black as a witches hat,the night comes,

With the wheels clickety-clacking like a bees hum,

Onto Mums shoulder the children lean,

Not even the loud ticket man wakes them from their dreams.

Dawn freshens,the night is finally gone,

Children wake up from dreams of bonbons,

The window's black,she's going through a tunnel,

All they can see is the smoke from the tall tunnel.

by olivia