On the Bus
Travelling from Bridge of Allen to Stirling,
a misty, rainy afternoon, the buildings grey,
the July streets gloomy, I felt gloomy –
my writing was going nowhere as I sat on the bus
wasting my time on things I didn’t need to do,
because it’s not easy simply to begin again.
A South American student was sitting near me.
‘How I love the soft rain,’ he sighed, ‘this wet
you call drizzle. Drizzle,’ savouring the word
as he gazed out. ‘Back home we don’t have this.
In my city, the summers are stifling,
the air polluted, and it’s impossible to work.’
He lifted his face up at the window -
how he would breathe in the air, drink in the rain
when he got off the bus.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Sarah Barr
would be pleased to hear them.