The Train To London Bridge

Screen_shot_2017-12-05_at_08.50.24by Patrick Howse24 Jul 2017

Smug, embittered Kent
Yields slowly to the city;
A last tunnel ends with steep
Embankments scruffily clothed

In brambles and willow-herb,
Made suddenly beautiful
By the co-incidence
Of our passing and sunshine.

We crawl towards Deptford,
(Where Marlowe died and my
Mother was born) through
Scrubby buddleia poking

Stubbornly from stone:
White butterflies feed
On spiky purple flowers
That stab as we pass.