All the coal drops in Pancras Road have gone
their skins as thick as castle walls, old bricks,
an artist's palate, oxblood, titian, peach,
mahogany, coral, rust, rose pink,
bulldozed into dust;
like Roman ruins
in their demise; fanciful by night;
archways into a past now swept away.
And in their place a concrete shed, cloned
from other termini, a railway look-
alike from anywhere. It has no heart,
no love built in its walls, no gothic shapes
picked out in black or subtle shades of pink.
Where is the bridge that proudly wore its stripes,
that pinked the air - that strode across the road
and shouted I am here, look up at me?
where sunlight played its games
where are the multi coloured bricks
the rich mosaic, oxblood, titian, peach
mahogany, coral, rust, rose pink?
Bulldozed into dust.