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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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