For The Wooden Boy
The bus shelter shapes a rain hide to observe the rain from,
see how it behaves when it thinks no-one's looking.
The woman behind wears a purple coat and starts coughing
in a way that makes me glad I'm standing upwind.
The red bus arrives, a golden crucifix glowing
in its destination board.
Step on board. Drop gold change into the collection box.
The priest driver places the wafer-ticket on my tongue.
Climb a spiralling stair to meet the stares of passenger gargoyles.
Fall into a pew at the back. Plug myself in to enjoy the service.
As the hymn gets going the plastic surrounds
of the windows transform into grey stones.
Heat of the passengers. Some sipping holy red bull,
others kindling sacred texts. The windows
stain with the breath we contain. Travel
through a green and pleasant land
until the bell says it's time to leave.
The tickets are all singles there being
nowhere to return to and only
go on to.