Northern

Northern.

They chant it in rhyme at Nursery,
But when they picked it up,
They transported it, every brick
To the new country.

Then how could I change there
How could I return home?

I passed an Angel
But has anyone ever been to Morden and come back to tell the tale?

At Moorgate
Every tin has a silver lining
And the sweet clothed sardines
After a hard days work

Mixed with the bitter tar
Reminiscent of cold September days on the way to school

We banked on that
That smells carry emotion
Like when you smell bleach it takes you way back
To swimming pools.

Funny thing is you never realise the connection
You just think happy thoughts

Until
Sharded like wool
We disembarked
And discarded

Our train of thought.
Each one to his own way.
Oblivious that we had shared.

END
A POEM FOR LONDON UNDERGROUND.
written as spoken between an Angel and New Cross.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:A tunnel.