Down where the sun never shows
the wind never blows
the rain never goes,
where patent air pumped clean and fresh
slowly circulates.
In the blue-green neon light
a lone Jamaican, sad for the sun,
swish-swishes with a bristle-tufted broom
down the long bright corridors of tiles.
Gone are Betjeman's bronze electroliers,
gone like the trolleybus and EMBANKMENT tram;
gone are the sepia prints of Rayners Lane.
Sixty feet below Green Park
shop-girl, businessman and clerk
are swallowed whole by silver glow-worm trains
that burrow through the city in the dark.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A memory written in perfect prose. An enjoyable read
Thank you for this.