Ian Bowen - Poet on a Bus

The poet with a bus pass,
boarded the number 63
that left from the edge of the town.
Now he rushed red, scraping
the green of ancient hedges.

From the top deck,
through the front window
he drank in the view;
his inspiration.

Scribbled phrases
rested on his shaky lap;
later to be honed
and positioned
by the moving
fingers of experience.

The tractor
in a distant field
would become
a black charger
stampeding
the marsh meadows.

Burning stumps
of summer corn
the breath
of some internecine dragon.

Lines of waving trees,
soldiers awaiting
the bugle call to charge

Fluffy clouds
would roll
like the smoke of battle.

He would see the ghosts
of the defeated, marching
amid the mist of streams.

His return ticket,
lay in his pocket...

like a second poem.

Ian Bowen

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