On this bus, there are many languages,
they baffle and tangle. I can't guess
where all these students come from
and I want to know what they are saying.
That first Monday,
I was astonished at what they carried,
duvets, personal stereos,
a hockey stick, a table lamp.
And that first Monday, I remember,
trying to read the graffiti on the bridge supports.
The taggers' names, I couldn't decipher
just recognise the need to say,
I'm here.
By the fourth Monday
graffiti' merges into architecture,
voices settle down,
become like engine sounds
when nothing's wrong.
There's just the African
who still stands out.
A voice I listen for like
a half remembered song
on someone else's radio,
or a black bird
singing after rain.
And I still look for Chloe,
those white painted letters
on trees and under bridges.
I think of a grief
that would not fit in wayside flowers,
a box in the Evening Post.
A blackbird after rain,
RIP Chloe.
© Rosie Garner |
