Transport For London Shaman

The TFL Shaman- A Journey Home. Raindrops trickle down the misty train windows, Obscuring views of coloured graffiti, Works of passion sprayed on to embankment walls. Bright colours splattered onto neglected structures, Wild Statements of art, Arising from the urban ashes of creativity. Serious and distant faces find the protection, In-ear plugs and Smartphones, from a carriage, Painted in soulless grey and from fellow travellers, Silhouetted against stark Fluorescent lighting, From contact that might demand a human response. Hopeful eyes, searching screens for some outreach of love, Social media, this agency of sometimes silent desperation, Of outsourced spirituality, Paper castles and empty rooms, Designed to steal us from the very now, This very now, that would wake us, From a digital nightmare. Suddenly the sunlight slips through dark clouds, Transforming the soulless city grey Into instant beauty, Sunlight bounces of wet sparkling windows, Shafts of white light scatter across sky and Concrete Landscapes, highlighting and making special For just a moment, the ordinary. And against a quietness, Only disturbed by the rumbling train, Comes the faint voice of a passenger singing. Awkward feet shuffle as people turn away, But as she sings, this TFL Shaman tears down a hidden vail, And for a moment we stand exposed, real, Scared others might see our pain. Next stop, Chadwell Heath a soft voice says. The doors fly open, and the TFL Shaman steps off, Her glowing Red hair lifting gently in the breeze, Her Shopping bags cutting into her small hands. Outside In the warm summer sun, a blackbird sings with all its heart, Falling silent for a moment, and then sings again. John Roberts