King's Cross
You multi-storied station,
What will your stones say of me?
What scraps of memory will cling
To your furred bricks and spattered arches,
Your flattened, blackened slabs
Of archaeologically significant chewing gum?
Sod all, I suspect, for what can stones recall
Of an endless crossing and re-crossing
Of a concourse which leaves no trace?
Once I loved it, being so invisible.
It was a needed freedom, a way of escape,
To lose myself utterly down that well of
Numberless hours and faces, of brief encounters,
Assignations, love affairs – and to trace there
Among those ghosts, as if it counted, my own path
Arcing into darkness like those lonely gleaming lines,
Those faceless days and nights entwined
With sudden bright moments of pain or joy -
The solecisms of love joined or sundered,
Or dreamed in passing.
These days I am less impressed
By reminders of my own insignificance;
These days I find it harder to relish
How casually I am effaced, the empty space
That’s instantly filled. Yes, I’m glad
Tonight is the last time, glad my train is leaving.
