He stands beside the wooden rail
Where the yellow paint is thin and frail
A metal skin of orange rust
Waiting in the swirling dust
Oh the watering can keeps the beat
Watching for the ghosts on a dead end street
Patient as the salt on a winter shore
Guarding a lock on a broken door
The depot roof is leaning low
Nowhere left for the trains to go
He holds a drink of stagnant dew
Watching for a whistle coming through
Oh the watering can keeps the beat
Watching for the ghosts on a dead end street
Patient as the salt on a winter shore
Guarding a lock on a broken door
The iron tracks are buried deep
While the sleepy station birds all keep
Their watch above the empty bend
Where the gravel meets the river end
Oh the watering can keeps the beat
Watching for the ghosts on a dead end street
Patient as the salt on a winter shore
Guarding a lock on a broken door
No hand arrives to lift the weight
No one knocks upon the iron gate
He wears the stains of fifty years
Cold as the wind in a sailor's ears
The oil lamps are dry and gone
The midnight moon is pale and wan
A heavy stillness in the air
A lonely sentinel standing there
He does not move for wind or rain
He does not ask for a coming train
Just a steady shape in the gray
Waiting for the break of a summer day
Oh the watering can keeps the beat
Watching for the ghosts on a dead end street
Patient as the salt on a winter shore
Guarding a lock on a broken door
Just a rusty guard.
Standing in the yard.
Watching the door.
