I
Plungington
Road and the bucking bus
Is
STOPPING at Adelphi Dentists’. In trackie and trainers,
Nike,
plastic-black with white tick and wedges,
She
foots the buggy’s break and parks it in the aisle.
One
hand, tattooed with the Lamb and Flag,
Extended,
grips the metal bar. The packed bus lurches,
But
the child is safe: Mum holds hard the pram
To
battle with the brake-surge. Stopped, the bus exhales
And
bows. She struggles off, having thanked the driver.
II
Under
the City Coat of Arms she waits for service.
Hollow-cheeked, buck-toothed, lank grey hair,
“It’s about a bus-pass,” she begins, leaning
on the counter.
“But
you don’t look old enough,” kids the man,
Words
that will be repeated to a busy stacker
In
the aisle at Aldi, and later to a patient neighbour.
At
bed-time she wipes the mirror,
“But
you don’t look old enough,” she whispers,
And
kisses, in air, a sweet face that was younger.
III
Pale
disc of sun through drizzle transforms: slates gleam,
Leaves
shine out. It tickles her nose and chin.
With
a tissue she clears her spectacles of moisture.
That
evening at the Centre there’ll be show-time,
Tambourines,
the pretty music teacher
And
friends and parents to applaud her.
This
is her city, a source of grace, a place of wonder.
Her
eyes sometimes dwell on the face of the lamb:
Serene,
triumphant; she feels love surround her.