I miss the old St Pancras
Hiding in the archway from the rain
The darkness, walls embedded
With the soot of a million trains
The newspaper stands’ patina
The noise, deisel fumes, dust
‘Lend us 50p mister?’
Seats all plastic and rust
The new station is clean and tidy
Well policed, welcoming, smart
But it’s lost some if its character
And replaced it with modern art
I miss the old St Pancras
The gritty, noir place of my youth
Today I closed my eyes on the platform
And returned there for a moment or two.
I was lucky enough to be in London on Thursday, a trip I make periodically for work. Whiling away some time waiting for a train I tried to recall the ‘old’ St Pancras, the one I remember from exciting trips as a teenager and early work trips. The poem pretty much wrote itself over a coffee.
(c) Chris Johnson 2018