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Commuterland
The brittle crack of frost on pane
followed the rain, as winter bit and lit
the edge of leaf and hedge with quicksilver white.
As the night supercooled and pooled the lamplight
with halos effervescent, like incandescent lollipops,
atop streetlights of grey, receding lines.
And mist thickened to fog whilst work weary folk
slog through commuter throng on the long
journey through suburbia's blur to bedsit or flat,
or house somewhere.
Shoulders bent against the eve, they weave their
weary way at end of day.
Bleeding out the city and pretty girls habituate bars
or spill into cars and text momma's to expect them late.
Yet others wait at bus stop and underground,
where rumbling sound heralds their arrival,
all vying for survival in this great melting pot of humanity,
their sanity questioned, their reasoning profound
in their undying quest for the British pound.
Copyright ©
John Jones
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