There were flags, and a few maps.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.

A soldier and wife, with haggard look.

The convict, and boy with violin.

The river’s level drifting breadth began.

Things moved. I sat back, staring at my boots.

For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?

Letters of thanks, letters from banks.

And for that minute a blackbird sang.

I thought of London, spread out in the sun.

Could do worse than be a spotter of metaphors.

There isn’t a porter – the platform is made of sleepers.

You say I come alive at such moments.

Sources: Patricia Beer, Edward Thomas, Thomas Hardy, Philip Larkin, WH Auden, Simon Armitage, John Betjeman, Greg Freeman