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.
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