An accident at Bakerloo

You step from the escalator at
the top of the stairs;
a dusty corridor, clattering distant
and see her there,
tired and wizened, scarf akimbo,
a weakening dictator
in the republic of cold floors.
A thousand pass,
unseeing in flowing and going.

She has seen them all before -
seen them shiver
in the old times, clustered under blankets,
and heard them laugh,
fighting fear with mirth. The fires,
the bombs,
the juddering ground and Junkers
hammering,
these things meant warmth,
songs and sudden friendships,
a lovely grim togetherness.
She had a badge,
a lamp, a mask, and Kettering
who squeezed
her hand at lights-out, who made
sweet tea
took care of her flotsam on the floor.
Smiling Kettering;
how silly to dream of children,
and somewhere in the Cotswolds;
how selfish!

Her sister found her kneeling
by a half-made man in a crater.
Blackened and burnt - almost cremated -

They said a few months in Blackpool
will soon have you speaking again.

^

Biography

Niall Murphy lives in Dublin. He has participated in poetry workshops for many years.