Something about Sunday makes
All the beauty in the world
A lot easier to see than when
Weekdays cloud our vision
And Saturdays drain our wills.

Ice like ferns scribed
On a window, and carpets
Of thick, crunchy frost,
Illuminated by a low Sun
Hovering in an ice blue sky,
Would be impossible to enjoy
Fully any other day of the week.

The warmth of a well heated bus
Can be appreciated as it
Cruises down half deserted roads
Between quiet, frost bitten houses.

Closed shops with lying "open" signs
Take a day of rest from
Their weekday trickle of people.

Even the landscape seems to know
That today, things don't have to be
Done quite so urgently...
The houses and tower blocks that
With the trees carpet the hills
And dells of this place I call home
Hide in the near invisible haze
Of evaporating frost.

I, too, am enjoying this day
On which there is nothing to be done.
My calm, circuitous travels
Are, for me, a pleasing way to see
Just how different the world looks
When it doesn't have to be
Somewhere else an hour ago.

And as I wind my way home,
Threading a path between
The red brick terraces, I feel
Completely at rest wrapped
In this blanket of beauty.

01/05/2003

Author's Note: 4388 is the fleetnumber of the bus on which I wrote this poem. In case you are interested, it is a Dennis Trident with Alexander ALX400 bodywork, owned by Travel West Midlands.

Posted on 01/05/2003
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince