Moorgate
The smell of smoked bacon,
clinging to clothes,
and the sight of a rat
or a huge black moth
as I waited on the platform.
Men, scrawny, some scruffy,
some seedy, some smart
would stand too near the edge.
I'd watch nervously,
trying not to stare.
Lone women, late at night,
would slide up to other women,
scared perhaps, of being left,
in an empty carriage,
with just one foul creep.
Some nights I'd fall asleep,
with the jogging of the train,
it's meandering,
through tunnels of dark, unholy
blackness, deep underground.
Moorgate still haunts me,
bodies crushed in a buckled train.
Ghosts ever present
in my head,
These days I hurry past.
They pierce my memories,
I feel their fear, their pain,
the smoke, the heat, the cries,
my pretty world decimated
into shreds.
Show me the light,
let the blue sky shine on me.
Bring me sunshine, fresh air, tall trees,
for I dread the dark __
that dank, stale stench of the underground.
poem by Ruth Walters
Added by Poetry Lover
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