October's dying, and I'm looking for a friend,
A kindred spirit I've mislaid
Somewhere between a grief and recollection.
This bus - an any bus - pulls up,
Pale girl on the back seat, gazing through
The window's filth, the rain, and me;
Flat caps, black macs,
A mother with a flower in her hair;
The engine's warmth;
A kind of comfort here.
Telford's ribcage arches over us: the Strait today is black,
Three hundred feet below our wheels.
My eyes explore the streets and buildings,
People toiling up the hill;
There's a skinny T-shirt boy in the draught
Of a Bangor pavement; there's a spaniel scuffing leaves.
Doorways of tattoo parlours, take aways,
All bare: the beggars have departed. Trees,
Redleaf beacons in empty parks; homes
Where curtains are drawn tight -
I wonder if my friend has curtains,
Has a home to go to.
'Pick a stop', I tell myself. I hit a bar:
Damp people couched in lamplit solitudes;
Wood and candles, beer and coffee grounds
And smoke; no cries of bonhomie,
No dawning recognition. All through town,
Fat pumpkins, spiderwebs, and ghosts,
And gaps between the rain, where memories stir.
I buy myself a crimson scarf,
Wrap up against the dark,
Sidestep puddles.
Fantastic. Expertly written and lovely. Lines broken in just the right place and original, exciting vocabulary. Great description and interesting story.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautiful, quite simply beautiful....thanks