My Street in December

December, cold and dark and wet
With whirling winds which whip and fret
As they whistle in through letterbox
And beat tattoos on window box.

Far from the centre, just one bus* 
Almost empty as it reaches us,
Comes into view and people stare
Its timing is so laissez faire.

At first light twice a week they come
Blocking the commuter run
The refuse trucks that groan and halt
As bin men our sacks catapult.

As warm as toast I’m oft inside
As the world to work takes its first stride
In dressing gown I pad downstairs
At three times twenty now – who cares?

The scattered clouds soon blow away
The weak sun smiles upon my day
Of course he takes his time, ‘tis true
Who else behind the grey sees blue?

At four the school kids are let out
Like falling leaves they swirl about
Keys in ignition, parents wait
Their progeny runs through the gate...

Almost as one, the engines start
And roar off quickly in the dark
The street abandoned, cloaked at dusk
Then resumes its vigil as it must.

(c) Poet in the woods 2015

* STIB bus N° 17