Enticed, gazing through criss-cross fencing

at Preston Road station platform.

Ignoring the fierce, frightening through trains,

rushing past his feet,

and British Rail on the far tracks.

He watched the common red ones,

with flared carriage bottoms,

waited for the rare, pale red ones,

with oval end windows, and

the very rare brown ones,

with delicious slamming doors.

He waited for them,

guessed which would next appear,

studied them, their sounds and lines,

made stories about them,

longed to ride them,

I suppose he loved them.

Then silver ones appeared,

and he was transported.

 

Really transported, as

on a rare trip to Baker Street

his big-hearted, patient gran

was persuaded to miss two red ones

to ride a silver.

A holy experience.

 

Surely, the little boy mis-remembered.

Surely, there never was a time,

when the Metropolitan line,

had four stock types. Surely.

But no – the silver A stock rolled out

in initially small numbers,

from June twelfth nineteen sixty one.

The last year for the brown T stock,

the lovely clunky, slammy, brown T stock.

While the red P stock

and the oval-windowed F stock

lingered a little longer.

God bless Google for these memories.

 

I was that eight year old.

Never a trainspotter,

I wonder why it happened.

But the lonely child's facility for fascination

and true wonder,

for seeing magic in the ordinary,

I want it back.