I take out the little book you gave me from my jeans pocket, begin reading the last page, so that I leave my favourite poem for last. Each page is a little world to wander in. Each time I read these poems, I discover something else, find something I had not seen before. I turn a page and the day starts anew and I am seeing things with different eyes. I read, gaze, read some more, watch the streams of people pour into and out of this bus like it is a silent film happening around me.
Room to breathe after the station, and more space for thoughts. As I struggle to climb the steep floor as we head uphill home, I think about how the radio has introduced me to other new poets this week, in the interval breaks in concerts - poets who are very much alive and creating. It has been a week of words, words speaking out in beautiful stark glory, a week of voices communicating so much with such economy. I ding the bell and there is a click of recognition in me that maybe I should try writing some poetry. Such a simple and obvious thought, it feels ridiculous to have had it.
In the dark tree lined street, puddles hold scraps of reflections with ragged edges. Coltrane drifts down from an open window like blue smoke and I am going home to write some more.