There is a beach I dream of now and then,
the run down sort, well past its glory days,
cream teas poured for aging denizens

still anchored to their Daily Express ways.
Only their dogs are dumb enough to splash
about in the silty, sub zero waves.

To tell the truth, I’m not fond of the place,
it’s more the fact I get there on the bus
to interchange within a field of maize

bisected by a road devoid of cars,
no pavements or buildings to be seen either,
no sightings of the local populace,

just me on my Todd at the bus shelter,
waiting for the empty double decker,
the obscured face and mumbles of the driver…

Sometimes I get the waking urge to make a
return to the beach that doesn’t exist.
I spare no wistful thought for shoreline breakers,

it is the no-man’s bus stop that I miss.



The bus driver goes sixty miles an hour
down the thirty degree incline of Knight’s Hill.
That lump in my throat isn’t one of fear,

it’s just the new location for my balls.


Just like on that ill-fated summer’s day
when Shakespeare went outdoors without his cloak,
I’m huddled at the bus stop as the rain

bombards me from all vantage points and soaks
me to the skin despite the roof above
that proves no shelter at all yet I’m yoked

to it regardless til the red bus drives
into my view and I jump up and wave
like a castaway waving for his life

as a small biplane streaks the skies above.
Bit these skies are falling and I don’t know
if I’m visible enough to be saved

or if I’m but a blur beyond the flow
of sluicing torrents, the endless stream
that ripples down the bus driver’s window

making the world beyond seem like a dream.


The three year old falls in front of the bus
and all of us take in the harshest breath,
time slows right down, the ultimate darkness

hovers before us, this is more than death,
this is nature’s true, uncaring face,
this day will stay with us throughout our lives.

We’re thrown forward as the driver hits the breaks.
The boy, unharmed, is scooped up by his Mum
who takes the blast of the driver’s rebuke,

offers no audible defence to him,
just clutches her boy tight, he’s bawling now.
The bus moves on, the world slowly becomes

a blur through glass, a casual peep show.


The guy on the bus is rocking to and fro
like he’s watching a sped up tennis match;
like elephants in some back garden zoo.

The passengers keep their distance but watch
in case he pulls a shank and goes to work
harvesting ears to make a fancy brooch.

He points at some of us, but doesn’t talk—
when his stop comes, the relief doesn’t last,
for as he rises from his seat to walk

we’re greeted by the sight of his bare arse.

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 1,501 other followers