London, Underground by Laurie Atkinson

My London was dark,
it stank.
We held hands tightly there.
A place without distance or landmarks,
Only brightly coloured strings.

Ruled by boards and tannoys,
And terrors of The Gap,
We always had luggage in London,
It dragged us to its depths.

Never a destination,
but a fleeting go-between,
in London we dashed past leering faces,
that beamed down from the tiles;
vain lures of surface pleasures
from the city’s peeling lips.

My London was underground,
a warren punched out by trains,
where the rabbits thronged on platforms
and ate packs of Walker’s crisps.

‘Somewhere beyond these tunnels
Is a suburb and a sky,’
I would think as doors slid shut behind us
and we plunged into the dark.