Kings Cross

Steam no longer hisses here
save for the baristas churning latte milk,
no more crunching bogies grind
just the rasp of Javan beans,
no bouldering blue grey plumes
to avalanche the rib-arched span,
body odours, none of coal
save the chargrill smell of foreign grub
no crinolines nor travel trunks
no crisp-dressed porters doffing caps,
but ensconced within the parcel yard
a whistle blows, a thunderer, time to depart.

© Graham Sherwood 05/2018