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  • Writer's pictureCaleb Parkin

NaPoWriMo 2.17: 310

Our bus across the Yorkshire countryside was not like the Wensleydale Omnibus, alas.‎

Final poem of the day…

Taking the number prompt from Jo Bell’s 52 today – and thinking about a moment on a bus journey that a friend and I took yesterday, when on our way to Holmfirth.


In the top second row,

we float through Netherthong,

raise an eyebrow and a titter.

Two young ‘professionals’

in a dialogue of loud future tense:

our shopping list of desires

for our less than 60 years.

In the coveted front row –

(the seats which feel

like an out-of-body experience)

in a rustling nest from Wilko:

a girl, perhaps under ten,

her grandma, 60-or-so.

The bus slows, “What’s going on

Gran?” There are dark suits,

post-ceremony loitering, flat

black-hatted faces and time

held captive in the clock tower.

It’s bright outside. Dark cars twinkle

from every double-yellow line: including this

sharp bend, edging around the graveyard.

“It’s illegal,” says the elder, “parking there,

in the way, on a corner like that.”

We see them, peering down, with all


of our combined years. Watch them now,

watching closely, as two grey bumpers

edge nearer and nearer


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