No one dares enter. The tunnel is worm black
as if nothing will ever emerge.

Gold light spins out, flows molten
along four rails towards me,

my feet on the platform fixed tight
with foreboding.

In the tunnel, way back,
the driver’s lit like a charioteer,

his silhouette standing and swaying.
One hand reaches up.

The face of the tube rushes nearer
in a brilliant smile.

Two white eyes burst out in a screech.
The driver sits down, brakes to a halt.

A flash of awe in the underground.
I find a seat.

Janet Hatherley