London on the Elizabeth Line

London on the Elizabeth Line

The train is leaving the platform now,
Where once farmlands and the plough;
It is the ever encroaching Metroland,
Captured in Betjeman’s flowing hand,
As the pen pushes ink across the ream
Of paper. It’s is poetic, like a dream,
To travel on this way. In Jersey, the train
Long departed, finances down the drain,
Or stocks and sidings in a ruinous fire,

The smell of burn wood and metal dire
And leaving nothing but a pleasant walk;
So, gentle listener, forgive me if I talk
And wax lyrical about the English rails,
And all the stories upon those trails:
Brunel’s tunnel under the river Thames,
King’s Cross, Marble Arch, so many gems;
And don’t forget the murder on the line:
4.50 from Paddington, two trains align,
A passenger in one has a fleeting glance
Of murder in the other. A strange chance!
Holmes and Watson, shrouded in a fog,
Bradshaw ready, off to find a dread dog
On Dartmoor, many miles by the train:
But as an advert said, let it take the strain!
And it does: rattling lines along the way
To my clever son’s OU graduation day
For applause, clapping, and ovation
Not long now, to reaching station
And now arriving, doors gliding open,
It’s time for me to lay down my pen,
And ponder events future yet to be,
The signs of May celebrations to see,
As I hear the distant church bells ring,
And approaching Coronation of the King.