Sam Hickford

John Clare on the Tube

Frit by the crankling train that storms the brigs
of Harrow clock-a-clays & woven twigs
are soodling passengers – theyre sleeping tight
clothéd in rawky natures faded light
& younkers maul & lease their mothers love
as sprents the sweat, ‘mid echoes from above.

I love to watch the Tube sturt in the night
bosoming the lowns within its airy flight
across the elting in its grassy sleep
besomed by suthying men. Then in one creep
sturt hinging Smartphoneers & startling men
& well-clout women begin their ‘work’ again.