Bus

A Bus passes through trees,
Lots of trees.

Through curves,
In tree’d mountains.

I see a village nestling down below
Surrounded and warmed,
By trees.


Outside of the bus the trees end
And a small town appears.
The bus stops
And schoolchildren with eyes still in bed
Board the bus.

Now high
Small plains and valleys lie
Sweeping out as far as the eye can see.

More children at other small town,
And more trees.

Except for the driver
I am the only adult on the bus
And I am going to school also.

Ears pop
Still higher we go,
As high as the trees?
No, lower, always smaller.

A weak yellow suns grows and grows
In the morning sun
Promising
A new and glorious day.


Now at the top
No other way but down,
And down we go through the remains
Of a hurricane.

Bald patches scar the woods
Matchstick like piles of
Used to be trees.

More curves,
Downwards
More trees
Standing.

And in the soft sun
The bus stops.
All aboard dismount and go their separate ways
To the school behind the trees.