At night, when the last train rumbles
to the depot and the piston-draught dies down,
the night shift keeps its silent hours;
cleaning, repairing, watching
CCTV screens of empty platforms,
shutting down electrics with a key;
trackwalking near Stockwell, where an engineer
holds a Tilly lamp - he died in 1950 -
and cowled monks prowl the Jubilee.
The old lady at Monument & Bank
vanishes through padlocked lattice gates.
There’s a faceless blonde at Becontree;
and in Kennington Loop, the clunk of doors
being slammed along an empty train.
From the wartime crush at Bethnal Green,
one hundred and seventy three
screams still echo in the ticket hall.
At King’s Cross, the heat’s still there
from a flashover, fuelled by sweet wrappers
grease, dust, wooden escalators,
rat - and human - hair.
Heading downwards, here are four cleanskins,
rucksacks bulging with terror, intent
on detonating hatred in the tunnels, where
I saw the shade of a young girl, seventeen,
just arrived from Euston, on the Northern Line,
reading other passengers’ newspapers
the day John Lennon died. She often appears
on a Friday night, swinging her weekend bag,
running through Victoria.
Sometimes I see her saying goodbye
to a young man in a winter coat
as he exchanges all his gold for darkness.
Judi Sutherland
First published in The Ship Owner's House published by Vane Women Press
