The Other Bus

Did I tell you about the night I took a ride on the other bus?

How I rode through deep winter’s tree crash
on the turning blade of a knife’s edge,
there was no driver
but long-tailed tits in mirrors with peaked caps?

How the landscape looked back on itself slapping
branches of rain and banging twigs
in muddied drowning windows
moving faster than us?

How the wind churned night in its motors,
traffic cones rattled after
like loose dogs?
How the road tried to follow but couldn’t keep up?

How the water tower became a confrontation,
swollen tank over-spilling an inky sunset
as cars flew away
in an exodus of exploding headlights?

How the war memorial rose in rear view
with battle names and speaking flowers
placing a command of stony knot-work
with its snorting bugle?

How I longed for somewhere familiar to stop
when slowing down was at an aperture
with its pole-dancing passengers
and divine purpose?

How when I couldn’t hold on any longer
I let go and the other bus
thundered off?
How it took the night and landscape with it?

Penwortham Water Tower


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