The Saturday Poem – Tube


Born in London but raised away, above-ground

in Dublin, the first time I entered you,

sinking through standing levels, brushed by that warm

intimate-exotic wind – smells of caked soot,

historical dust and the third rail’s greased

lightning – I was home, buried, breathed on,

cradled and mortally coiled, lost and found.

Today’s poem is from Mark Granier’s recent collection ‘Ghostlight: New and Selected Poems’ (Salmon )