Monday, 16 October 2017

On the coast bus to Mumbles


The scream-spit sea in churning,
draws the pelted horizon down,  
and feral spumes the bus. 
   Not unlike the wind leaf scarf,
drawn around yon autumn girl, 
lonely and staring phone-ward,
on the storm-plough battling bus.
    Tight lipped in lipstick, period red,
face as pale as the white horse manes.
Until the sun comes a-sliding,
a lemonade of swallowed tears.
  Then “ding”, and trance-like,
she is off the bus, soon lost to us,
as we plod on and on.

No comments:

Post a comment