Journey
of the 48
A cold waiting we had
for it,
just the worst time of
day
for the journey. The
roads clogged
and the air sleet:
what we dread in winter.
And when it came, with
no seats
and the aisle full of
children,
we regretted our
planning. Next time,
we agreed, we would
travel off-peak
and make use of our
passes.
Then, near town, we
came down to the ring-road,
wet, smelling of
diesel, with the factories
shuttered for safety.
An old white van
died in a car-park,
and the streets gridlocked.
When we arrive, not a
moment too soon,
we have missed our
appointment.
And this wasn’t a long
time ago, remember,
but within the last
week. There was a bus, certainly -
we had travelled on
it, but had hoped they were different.
This was wretched;
hardly satisfactory.
We returned home
another way, spending
our last on a taxi.
I should be glad of a
better bus.
