Guide Poem by Sheena Blackhall

He steps aboard the bus, a modern Moses
Slouch hat in the Aussie fashion, shades an eye
Blue, collarless shirt, red braces on parade
Chinos with pockets, septugenarian, tries to espouse modernity
Designer stubble or a lazy shaver

His mouth opens, a breached dam
Speaking us through the info-maze that's Cambridge
We drown in knowledge, far too out, not waving
Then his brain gives way, a rotten hayloft
We learn he's a Govan boy
He wanders off to the bad lands of nostalgia

Ten minutes on, he remembers he's a guide
His function to inform, to aid the driver
‘Oh dear, ' he reflects, ‘I appear to have missed your turn off'

The driver's knuckles whiten
A hiss of sighs issues between clenched teeth
We hurtle down the motorway to Stanstead

Forty five minutes late, we reach our destination.
Our guide steps off, waving his hat with a smile.

‘We'll ditch the guide in future',growls the driver
With barely enough time left for WCs