tunnel vision

tunnel vision

then there are the tunnels of my childhood;

under the main line, under the branch line,

six pit junction - they are all mine. 

           many in old dark red brick,

some dressed stone, with bird nest weep-holes,

nail-splitting finger holds to peer in and sclutter

the sitting from their tomorrow eggs. 

                          then 

there were the other tunnels, the short ones,

that were filled with ankle water;

or the ones that let the ghost lorries through;

even the one for the branch line 

                                    under the main line.

and then there was the viaduct, 

with the daring white-knuckle walk boards,

phew! we did and all, like! 

                                            then there were

the disused ones hidden by bramble; 

we hid in those and did things

                          then

there were the long white stalactite ones,

that we crawled along in the gutter water,

also white - but that was alright 

because there was an air shaft 

        half way along to

the dare you boys at the other end;

and the rats ran faster 

than our deep-breaths.

        the canal ones were the special ones,

                the crawling edged ones, 

                    the past streamed 

                        slowly along 

                            there, 

         we just knew it, see?

the bridges over the railway, 

  where we dropped chippings

    down the engine funnels, 

        were the fun ones. 

the steamed ones that

condensed in my memory

the taste of metal and wood.

all my time tunnel now

                              back to a childhood of

dirty knees, and come on boys! 

come on! come on! 

the tunnel is closing, 

and the light at the end grows dim.

the vacuoles in my mind are collapsing,

and i am falling in love with the past,

            fossilised?

there’s no future in that?

is it all just

                    tunnel vision?