My lovely son Paul, whose mission is to enrich the culture of TFL, has asked me to try my hand at writing a poem conflating Shakespeare and the tube. Can’t be more difficult than involving Dracula with the housing crisis, I thought..
I sway inside a tube at dark of day
Burrowing through the earth like an old mole.
No-one it seems has anything to say
I am a ghost; naught left of me but soul.
Light clatters by as people ebb and flow
The clothes don’t tell me who these strangers are
Beggar or king? A dame? A whore? Who knows?
Though some do speak by glance, by sigh, by scar..
I rise above ground, find the open air
And there the Globe – the Globe?
In this odd landscape, why is that still there?
And why my name, why actors in my robes?
Can it be so, that through this town of mine,
My words still run, despite the run of time?