It was early evening and the sky above was already deep blue-black.
Street, house and shop lights glowed outwards from pillars, posts and curtainless windows. Pools of down-light formed and gradually expanded, the passing traffic tracing white and red streaks above the black bitumen,
There was no wind to stir the dust or rustle the autumn leaves, and the sky under the bus stop was strangely still. People come and go, getting off, getting on, leaving stains and cigarette butts.
When they come , some hurry at the last minute, others are early, waiting worryingly and accusing their watches.
A gradual implosion towards the worn spot on the kerb stones where the doors hiss open. Now, the space was empty, and the bus stop was left waiting alone.
They were walking away in all directions, bags and rattling roller-cases grasped in tired hands :
Scattering
outwards
from
The Bus stop
each
at
their
own
speed,
meeting someone in a waiting car, walking with quick or slow steps, returning or possibly just arriving. They came together on the bus, now they were going their own ways.
The departing red lights disappeared from view in a cloud of diesel fumes, passengers swallowed whole through the double-doors and baggage stowed in the guts. They came their own ways, now they were going somewhere together on the bus.
There was nobody left at the bus stop to see the bright stars and darkening sky coming their own ways together.
A strong black hand rolled a white bike along from right
To
Left,
Black
Wheels
Turning
Slowly
Towards
The
Stop
But
It
Didn’t.
---
No comments:
Post a Comment