NaPoWriMo 2.17: 310

Our bus across the Yorkshire countryside was not like the Wensleydale Omnibus, alas. http://www.wensleydaleomnibus.co.uk/‎

Final poem of the day…

Taking the number prompt from Jo Bell’s 52 today – and thinking about a moment on a bus journey that a friend and I took yesterday, when on our way to Holmfirth.

 

310

 

In the top second row,

we float through Netherthong,

raise an eyebrow and a titter.

Two young ‘professionals’

in a dialogue of loud future tense:

our shopping list of desires

for our less than 60 years.

 

In the coveted front row –

(the seats which feel

like an out-of-body experience)

in a rustling nest from Wilko:

a girl, perhaps under ten,

her grandma, 60-or-so.

 

The bus slows, “What’s going on

Gran?” There are dark suits,

post-ceremony loitering, flat

black-hatted faces and time

held captive in the clock tower.

 

It’s bright outside. Dark cars twinkle

from every double-yellow line: including this

sharp bend, edging around the graveyard.

“It’s illegal,” says the elder, “parking there,

in the way, on a corner like that.”

 

We see them, peering down, with all

one-hundred-and-twenty-something

of our combined years. Watch them now,

watching closely, as two grey bumpers

edge nearer and nearer

together.

 

 

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I Am Sat Behind His Hand…

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Making my merry way back to Leeds after a lovely time in Bristol (which I do miss). Obviously I am on the glamorous Megabus – and am sat just behind the hand (see picture) of its jolly/sinister/jolly sinister blue and yellow mascot, branded on its side…Is it a smile or a smirk, Mr Megabus?

Sometimes you have to keep yourself occupied on a five hour journey and I thought I would use the image of being sort of ‘in’ a hand for some writing stimulus. Also, a repeated refrain can be rather fun to work with, pushing you to view one thing in many ways…

I Am Sat Behind His Hand

I am sat behind his hand
and it is translucent, ghostly.

I am sat behind his hand
which I have crossed with
minimal silver.

I am sat behind his hand
and his fingers frond from my head:
a cockerel.

I am sat behind his hand
and the landscape flees his grip.

I am sat behind his hand
while he grabs at the pylons, pulls
at the sun.

I am sat behind his hand
so my face, these lines,
are his palm’s fortune.

I am sat behind his hand,
resting my head on his thumb.

I am sat behind his hand
so he pixelates the dusk.

I am sat behind his hand
as he ghosts above the M5.

I am sat behind his hand
pulling pictures from between his
sausage digits.

I am sat behind his hand
snacking and about to be snacked.

I am sat behind his hand
to be placed in his pocket, a pen.

I am sat behind his hand
strapped in, ticking round his wrist,
keeping watch.

I am sat behind his hand:
Tom Thumb, emerging from a sleeve.

I am sat behind his hand
and his branching fingers
ruffle the leaves.

Megapoetry? Perhaps not – but at least I’m not playing loud music through my phone…