Going Underground
Under The Strand
the City flows sunk in gloom –
the light on our helmets smudges
sludge pulled down
the slope on gravity’s tide.
Chutes for horse dung are blocked along
our channel, fat lava chokes the walls,
rats shuttle from our beams.
A workman whistles from below.
A cavern void reached, we behold titan
sluice gates pushing back the Thames –
St. Pancras Station Hotel
Inside St. Pancras station Hotel
my British Rail guide shows me
murals on landings –
of stars, damsels,
knights on Holy Grails.
The hotel’s banquet hall is an office floor;
bedrooms store mops and pails.
The invitation to tiptoe across
the rooftop, the city veers below.
In the clock tower, we’re transfixed
by mechanical ratcheting, getting closer
to the day when travellers return.
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