Saturday, 26 January 2013

Bus note 38

Black flat cap.
Red-rimmed eyes.
Frail hair strands.
Man giving up on visibility.
        Scuffed up once white snow there.
Brighter patches shift distances.
        Adrenaline swilling about
        inside me hurts.
Outside the dirty bus
is somehow still
beautiful - dreamt of stuff,
near blue and whitening.
        Our scenery.
        Our quietness.
        Our maybe quietness.
A city covered over.


  1. I'm sure the path by the river is one we used to cycle down as children. Sometimes the treks would take us out of the City altogether.

    The rain has washed the snow and ice away now.

  2. It's wonderful to have (and keep) that sense of connection with the place where one grew up. A certain tenacious territorial fidelity seems to honour all concerned.

    (Thinking of the place itself as a sort of person, in some sense, or at least as an abiding presence.)

  3. nice...(can´t see your email Wooden Boy)