Quit The Smoke
Parallel rails and a near perfect symmetry,
Away from the Smoke where my misery’s obligatory.
The dead sleepers doze on their bed forever sedatory,
My mind awakes excited thoughts that are no more derogatory.
Fate is at the helm and she navigates me north
Ever closer to my realm and the cities of my birth.
I’m attached to a line that pulls me in forever reeling
To a place that is mine and the reassuring feeling
That this speeding metal carriage makes my vapour trail get thinner,
My stubborn mental marriage to the north begins to shimmer.
Quitting the Smoke is like ditching a habit,
With no real withdrawal or a warning on the packet.
The tubes are like veins leaving fatty deposits
At each station stop - alight here for a market
Of impersonal stalls and people with walls
And no eyes for me as I wade through and crawl
Along a platform of bees in their cold aloof hive,
Never has a city so dead ever been so alive.
The metal wheels on the metal rails,
This freedom feels and never fails
To seal the deal that can’t derail
My urge so real, this place so stale.
The fields unfold and demand I stare
Through a window of mould into rarified air.
The rattle slows and we’re nearly there
And my mind knows that my life isn’t fair.
We plough through a valley, in our wake a dereliction
Of architectural confusion that confirms my non addiction
To this particular brand of smoke and its high of isolation
Among the swarming mute masses with their sensory deprivation.
We slow to a shunt and we shunt to a stop,
We alight and we walk beneath a dawdling station clock,
That informs me I’m home and that I’m at journey’s end,
An unhurried northern city that will forever be my friend.