Poetry

Mr Eliot also caught the Tube

I hear the voice of the Lord in the shriek of the night Tube between Highbury and Kings Cross at speed underground. The cry of the rails the cry of A to B. The man opposite writes microprint in his notebook and mutters. The announcer at Victoria articulates “The—next—train—to …” compensating for the echo. Below this I hear a low arterial murmur the sweet murmur of the city. By high rise in Pimlico I count the last five soft metallic strikes of Big Ben at ten. At this distance they soak the air and seem to emerge from all things.…

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