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