Saturday, 26 October 2013

Bus note 77

        5a to Wrecsam.
Dandy in sour uric cloud
with worn out violet scarf.
        Us two perched
        on swung down seats
        before him,
his white long baby hair
testifying. Quiet.
        I clutch yellow bar
        and lean
        head forward
with eyes blurred
and stung. Done in.
        Loop of Station Rd
        almost has me over
        at Rhiwabon.


  1. We've been "doing" this one in our cottage reading group. There is a contention that the sharp tang of the sour uric cloud has so pervaded the milieu as to create (well, exacerbate, but that begs the question of the creating) a sort of existential exhaustion/malaise. And indeed that sounds fair enough. Or can it be the trials of the travel (the creating)?.

  2. It could also be the expectation of the travails to come. The bus was for the train home.