The poet with a bus pass, <br />boarded the number 63 <br />that left from the edge of the town. <br />Now he rushed red, scraping <br />the green of ancient hedges. <br /> <br />From the top deck, <br />through the front window <br />he drank in the view; <br />his inspiration. <br /> <br />Scribbled phrases <br />rested on his shaky lap; <br />later to be honed <br />and positioned <br />by the moving <br />fingers of experience. <br /> <br />The tractor <br />in a distant field <br />would become <br />a black charger <br />stampeding <br />the marsh meadows. <br /> <br />Burning stumps <br />of summer corn <br />the breath <br />of some internecine dragon. <br /> <br />Lines of waving trees, <br />soldiers awaiting <br />the bugle call to charge <br /> <br />Fluffy clouds <br />would roll <br />like the smoke of battle. <br /> <br />He would see the ghosts <br />of the defeated, marching <br />amid the mist of streams. <br /> <br />His return ticket, <br />lay in his pocket... <br /> <br />like a second poem.<br /><br />Ian Bowen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poet-on-a-bus/
