Newcross Station

Newcross Station has such a face,
so lonely, yet so friendly still
that were the heart to find a place
to with this eerie palace fill
then nevermore would be content
the kings whose thoughts are resident
in gold and silver stateliness
till they had known its emptiness:

an emptiness of night’s cold rays
that pierce the soul with reverent awe,
yet cannot be explained in ways
we understand, only poor
verbal meter insufficient,
writ’ by men whose inefficient
mutterings and protestations
strain and weaken poor relations.

The creeping light of coming dawn
stretches out with icy fingers,
grey o’er the silhouettes of morn’,
snapping icicles which linger
on obscure Victorian spouting;
effigies of ancients shouting
"Our love has desecrated been!"
and nothing else is to be seen:

save gas lamps o’er the platform signs
which flicker dimly till the last
undaunted, hopeless rays that pine
their prime are snuffed into the past
by wooden poles that porters oft’
were seen to light the lamps aloft
before the electricity
came to this principality.

And so I smile and fall asleep
within a relic of the past
that’s not forgotten, though to weep
upon the passing of the last
monstrosity of industry,
so peaceful in tranquillity,
would foolish be and out of place
in Newcross Station’s lonely grace.