Stuck down here,
far from any field or moor,
awaiting the tunnel’s promised
light, I lean towards its dark
and spot coarse grass
sprouting in the track.

Not long before the smell
of heather comes,
and my feet seem to sink a little
into soil. Other passengers
do not move, keep their hands
inside stuffy pockets,

don’t react to this underground
tract turning green.
I resist their swarm
to the approaching clatter,
bend down to touch
the bracken at my shins.

They board and doors
slide closed, moss thick
at the platform’s lip.