The Underground
A poem for the London Underground
The dim night sighs.
The station files, all kinds
Into the depth.
The world sepia-toned brown,
A realm of unearthly colour.
These big and little noises mesh,
A malevolence reigns around.
It’s stifling, scorching, tunnelling
Down and down.
I’m walking, skipping, people
Down around Kentish Town
Station, steadying to the escalator railing.
Sauntering, the train chamber roof
Is veiling.
Drowsy drunkards,
Stumbling underground.
I am simply pottering,
Idling in the town's renown.
Tilting and squinting
In the depth of these
Lights transmitting.
How does such gloom
Strike inspiration yet cataclysm?
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The steamless hiss, chewy air,
The Northern screaming south,
A frightened fox,
Veining mineral.
The carriage weaves together,
Knits tongues, leaves, the weather.
Too many mingled glances,
Too incurious to even care.
Rattling in the deep,
Screeching under surface,
Daydreaming and deaf to
The heavy summer trees,
Quarter, half, full moon,
And that biting northern breeze.
Immune to the spring smells,
To the pushy budding leaves,
The sun in the evening,
Or July’s kaleidoscope of greens.
I announce my presence
To the lamplit semi-darkness.
Spring dawning delighting in my luck,
Unrestricted to take in every little nook.
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