Moorfields

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Description

Stuck down here,
far from any field or moor,
awaiting the tunnel’s promised
light, I lean towards its dark
and spot coarse grass
sprouting in the track.

Not long before the smell
of heather comes,
and my feet seem to sink a little
into soil. Other passengers
do not move, keep their hands
inside stuffy pockets,

don’t react to this underground
tract turning green.
I resist their swarm
to the approaching clatter,
bend down to touch
the bracken at my shins.

They board and doors
slide closed, moss thick
at the platform’s lip.

Poetry by Rebecca Goss. Photography by Chris Routledge.