Lines

The Piccadilly Line

speeds like a bullet,

Platforms, people, blur,

Exploding through air

and sun reflections,

Desperate for the

hungry tunnel,

That artificial night

that sucks it down,

Eager, like lovers,

to consummate union

with The Underground;

The District Line

lumbers like a bear

in paradise on ice,

Rocking to and fro,

Slow, deliberate,

Every passenger patient, waiting

for the giant

that always stops, exudes,

Consumes;

Ealing Broadway,

Ealing Common;

Piccadilly long gone,

Gloucester Road,

Hyde Park Corner

in a fearsome rush!

© Michael Garrad November 2011