Waiting for a bus on the winding lane he stood

as if in a spotlight, moth man

attracted to his own time and space.

Neat sculpted zip - up top,

black jeans tight in the leg.

Converse trainers a flash of red on white

to separate the down - trodden pavement from his feet.

In his hand the black monolith of phone,

symbol of elevation and unearned knowledge

instant and expected.

His head framed by supreme hair wedged, impervious.

 

Waiting for a bus on the winding lane

set to one side, a man nondescript,

late middle - aged resigned,

hands thrust into pockets, the beige mac

windwept, uncleaned,  head thrust forward

under fading cap.

basic spectacles to light his weary way.

 

No pleasantries between them

alienated by the gulf of age and much more -

a rictus of attitude in uncomfortable stone.

Soon the bus would come to relieve them

of a wasted duty of silence self - imposed,

a sort of prison of self - confinement

on the ever and ever winding lane.