A poem that emerged from a memory cloud as I dashed through St Pancras Station – the first draft was typed into my phone on the Underground and read an hour later at my National Poetry Day gig. As I was Tweeting about the pianos a fortnight ago, it seems fitting to publish it online. (And if anyone can explain how to get rid of the double-spacing in WordPress, please feel free to comment!)
The St Pancras Pianos
for Paul
Who knew there were two
blue uprights at the station?
While you caressed the ivories
beneath the Eurostar escalier,
I was opposite Cath Kidston
listening to a bald bruiser
with tats and a gay dungeon beard:
boogie-woogie jazz sonatas,
impromptu ragtime rhapsodies,
pouring from his fingers
on and on for half hour.
I didn’t SMS
because you’d be on the Tube,
I didn’t want to nag,
and my BlackBerry battery was low.
So when at last we had
ten minutes left to check in,
and you called
and my phone went dead
I had to run into Fossil
– who had just repaired my watch strap –
and beg to plug it in.
We’d both been early.
We made our train
with time to buy a bottle of wine.
No-one could get angry.
And though I was disappointed
not to have been serenaded,
today when I passed through the station,
I felt as blessed as Nina Simone
knowing we’re travelling together
and one day soon
we’ll play it again.
