CHRISTMAS, AND THE RUSH HOUR
The bus I am sitting in has a full belly.
Bursting thoughts float like ghosts.
The man next to me nods in his book
a bottle peeps from his jacket.
Ruffled mother, pram-deep in plastic bags
and rolls of Christmas paper
gives her baby some sticky drink.
While tinselled teenagers like mosquitoes
giggle in the rear.
We pass the cemetery, slowly;
eighteenth century I have read on the stones;
for their day, clip-clop, clip-clop.
Hollied logs. Braziers popping chestnuts.
Mulled-wine. And the goose is getting fat
Horse-dung, carriages, carts.
Now rain drips through trees
I rub the misty window
see between the lip of a cloud
a sickle moon.
Nothing much changes… except
the traffic lights are on green.
First Published, Poetry Scotland