transit

On my way to the station. I suspect a number of my pieces will start this way, as it’s one of my best thinking spaces. Much of my poetry has it’s roots in the walk to the station, or the wait for the bus. Yes, poetry I’m afraid. I’ll give you fair warning, you’ll probably get some of it later.


The sun is bright and late summer, a cool breeze stirs, a flash of blue as a kingfisher takes flight. A lone jackdaw paddles slackly through the humid air as a small peloton mirages across the T junction. So far, so Grantchester Meadows.


I cross the road. I’ve pushed the button, but the main road is all at red, and no one is using the filter from either the main road, or the lane. So, I cross. As I get close to the other side, the lights change – not to green, but amber. A fat, balding guy in the lead car of the small queue applauds, in a manner that can only be described as sarcastic. I mean, that’s how I read it.


I suppose it could have been a compliment on my choice of hat, or football shirt. But that’s not how it felt. How it felt was ‘how dare you use The Road in a manner which in any way could impinge on my divine right to get to the next set of lights a second quicker that I now will be forced to by your desire to get to the station in time to catch your train.’ OK, I admit he had no way of knowing I was going for a train, I doubt he even knows there is a station around here, and I wasn’t actually that late, but, no need to ruin a perfectly pleasant walk.


Self absorbed, overfed, carbon spewing bastard.