It was so admired that day, as any day, the
smell of personal incense in the rush to
Moorgate-to courts at Finsbury.
Central Line, behold. You stately Victorian-
fighting the character of faster models in Piccadilly
or the introspective Circle:
all arise with New Years honours.
But this day be sad, Northern Rialto, for a passenger
met you in the tunnel
impertinent, proud like Hector,
Standing erect with his briefcase/shield
to attend his first meeting.
