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Piccadilly Line - 1965
Down where the sun never shows
the wind never blows
the rain never goes,
where patent air pumped clean and fresh
slowly circulates.
In the blue-green neon light
a lone Jamaican, sad for the sun,
swish-swishes with a bristle-tufted broom
down the long bright corridors of tiles.
Gone are Betjeman's bronze electroliers,
gone like the trolleybus and EMBANKMENT tram;
gone are the sepia prints of Rayners Lane.
Sixty feet below Green Park
shop-girl, businessman and clerk
are swallowed whole by silver glow-worm trains
that burrow through the city in the dark.
Copyright ©
Philip Hewitt
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