The Tube
Jostled on the escalator
falling through the crowds, slicing like a bolt from the blue
through the folds of their oblivion;
hating them for not revealing you.
Scowling at the jaded,
the crazed, the ill-prepared
the Tuesday drunks,
the fawning sloanes,
the fat, the mute, the scared.
I sprawled into the day with ire.
This morning was spent planning my revenge;
forcing it through my head:
willing your falling dreams dead
and scarred amongst the ashes of mine,
craving the taste of loved-blood,
undone and writhing in the passage of time.
And then, mid-day,
you made me real again,
with an alphabet of some small hope
on screen of my phone,
casting light into space where I languished alone.
And there was peace in the evening,
moving towards you on the heaving tube,
bathed in the glow of its tunnels,
washed in the sea of the busker's music:
rushing on the ground
at the hand of a man
with wandering eyes, like you.
By Heidi Blake
More about Heidi
Heidi Blake was born on 26th April 1986. She developed a love of writing at a young age, with a particular emphasis on poetry. She was educated at Alleyn's School in Dulwich where she established and ran a Creative Writing Society. This is the first poetry competition Heidi has won and her poem 'Silver Bells' has been published in United Press's anthology 'Body and Soul'. Heidi has a degree in English and Politics from York University where she also edited the student newspaper. Heidi will be working as a reporter for the Daily Telegraph from September.