Here are two poems about journeys on trains. The first describes arrival in London. People flock into the city, each with his or her purpose: a day at work, a visit, an assignation—there are many reasons why people converge on a city. For some, the moment of arrival is significant and exciting; for the city, it is nothing much, a daily event, repeated and repeated.

the train arriving at platform two

We are now approaching King’s Cross Station,

And bluebells climb a bank; ground elder too,

Beneath sycamores unplanned, seedlings

That had arrived from somewhere woodier;

Under a bridge, defaced by painted scrawls,

To the platform itself, where a man, alone,

Clad in dowdy clothing looks uncertain

As to which train to board;

up above

A London sky, pale blue, unclouded,

Poked into by arrogant buildings,

Products of an architectural ego

Craving attention like a teenager;

A clutter of roofs and solar panels

Begging the sun to visit; distant chimneys;

A city that has seen it all,

and more,

The hum of outrageous empire;

The smell of trade, moments of decision;

This city says: come join my multitudes,

There is not water nor air enough

For all of you, but come to this spectacle

And marvel, spend your money,

And return to a place where others

Know your name, your looks,

And all the failings you’d prefer

Not to tell us about;

not that we mind:

We hear and see too much to care,

For each day, unfailing, it begins again,

Equal in sunshine as in rain,

Others come, and do the things they must,

The sad, the crooked, and the just,

The weather comes and goes, all right,

The crowds, the traffic, and the night.