The London Necropolis Railway

The London Necropolis Railway

by Kelda Crich

From the glass roof where no shadow falls,
from cool, arched, glazed London brick viaduct,
from lavish-wrought iron gates opening like a mouth,
from a temple to the modern.
The train in insistent steam departs.
Moves on.

Walk with softest step along narrow corridors.
Watch through the bevelled window
a bubble frozen in the pane.
The mourners jolting to the rhythm of the Necropolis Train
are a puzzle needing completion,
a missing piece, buried in your mind’s memorium.
Move on.

No coin pressed against your tongue.
No taste of copper in your parched mouth.
You have no obol for the ferryman.
Instead you clutch the coffin ticket for
your third class funeral.
Move on.

Here’s a lady dressed in lace as delicate as her
breathless face. So still, she watches
the children crying, unsoothed by the nurse maid,
or their silent father.
She joins you.
Move on.

Here’s a man, a likely fella
You might have met him down the docks
shared a drink, a laugh.
There are no words left to be said.
He joins you.
Move on.

Here are silent twins, old men
dressed in rags or silk, street women
still smelling of the Thames,
shrouded girls and worn-faced men.
Move on. Move on.
There are no words to be said
Move along the dark corridors, the vastly swelling hoard.

You who never travelled beyond the Bells.
Leaving all behind.
It was a good life,
yet you shrug it off like a worn coat.
No tears or grief.
All is past.
There is no emotion for the dead.
Move on.
Take this journey from Waterloo Bridge Station.
Take the London Necropolis to the Green Country.

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First published in Tales of the Talisman.

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Kelda Crich is a new born entity. She's been lurking in her creator's mind for a few years. Now she's out in the open. Find Kelda in London looking at strange things in London's medical museums or on her blog. Her poems have appeared in Nameless, Cthulhu Haiku II, Transitions and Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet. 

What inspires you to write and keep writing?

I'm inspired by the fact that when I do finish a poem or story, it's unique. I'm the only one who could have created that particular work. Good or bad, it's all about meeee. Oh, and the reader. Thank you, kind reader. Without you, I would be nothing.

What do you think is the attraction of the fantasy genre?

The fantasy genre can be a window into past cultures. How did people think in times past? How did their culture shape their actions and their imaginations?And does that shine a light onto us today?