By Ivor Griffiths

Sandstone hewn from a cinammon crag,
damp grey, cold, coated with smog spat
by metal killers freed form city forests.
The drips of soaking black soot splatter
the sheltering mannequins who stand or sit.
Some shuffle. Then clanking metal cracks
rhythmically announce with an ear splitting screech.
Many mouths open and then thud shut.
They swallow damp outside air and happy lonely
travellers, here for "The Brief Encounter" tours,
drinking the now evaporated atmosphere of steam:
covered in synthetic ugliness.
Those machines of flesh
scrambling on the Hierophant's wheel,
smelling the coffee and diesel fumes,
they live past the time on the station clock,
that runs slow
by five.
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