Their brollies dripping on the floor
All muffled up, a tall, slim man
Holds two drumsticks by the door.
A young girl finds her nails deserve
Some treatment, then her gaze goes blank
While another woman I observe
Scans a statement from her bank.
Two men in suits, their raincoats wet
Chat quietly into mobile phones
A fractious child begins to fret
So its mother speaks in undertones.
It’s lunch time, so the kids are out
They step on board in noisy groups
Their rucksacks heavy I’ve no doubt
They’re laden just like front line troops.
At each stop on the way, we lurch
The driver, safe in front, is calm
Some jump on board and then must search
For silver coins to cross his palm.
The over sixty-fives go free*
But still must validate their card
In doing so, a seat they see
But miss it, which is very hard.
And do the young give up their place
To those less steady on their pins?
Of course not – they fear loss of face
Youth culture, not their conscience, wins.
(c) Poet in the woods 2013
(written in 2007 - *no longer free)
Just read your poem to your friend, my daughter, and we both observed how wonderful your poems are becoming
ReplyDeleteI just love that line "Their brollies dripping on the floor"