“Sorry. Sorry. Last bloke I stood on I
broke his toe. Sorry. Got his own back
with a bit of this.” Shakes his bunched five
the bus lurches snided with Christmas stacked
shoppers. Wreathed Holly needles my legs through
blue plastic and denim. My annual
pilgrimage. Cleaned their Yorkshire stone leaf strewn
face to see the hid lettering in full.
Laid the natural circle of bound moss
and evergreen on the cold. Said a few
words, as heart led head urged in the loss.
Snippets of gossip, goodwill and old news.
I catch an emptier bus back to town
full of students on a break, winding down.
