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Journeying

30 Mar

It is a bus: ye olde busse,
– for a penny a ride –
with conductor hat and all
at the entrance standing tall.

As the bus stops by the bus stop,
climbing on through open doors
I can hear the metal tinkling
and the buzzer saying “ring”.

Also the bus – this time more modern –
takes me along past all the world:
Sitting waiting, screech of brakes,
on again, past shops and lakes.

Stop the bus! I rise to leave;
press the bell and say “Thankyou.”
The doors slide open with a hiss
and out I step onto the grass.

A bus starts up and carries on.
No longer do I see;
as I step off alone
the bus carries on.


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Posted by on Tuesday, March 30, 2004 in poetry

 

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