On the coast bus to Mumbles

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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.