An Afternoon in January, Harrow Weald Bus Station. (New Version).

That neat old man toddling home,
his bags bulging with tins of soup,
is closer to eternity than he cares to ponder,
his eyes fixed on the uneven pavement.

The school kids are blind to his predicament,
they rush by in swarms, like bees or locusts.
They bicker around a fleeting attraction,
a dead cat festering in a box.

A child pokes the cat with a plastic sword,
but does not understand what he is poking.
His mother drags him away by the sleeve,
then calls the police on her mobile phone.

A white sky slowly turning crimson.
The High Street packed with vans and lorries.
The schoolkids, bunched in rowdy covens,
fight like Amazons to board a bus.

The old man quietly turns a corner
unperturbed by wrangles and riots.
He is more concerned with getting his supper
than reading his name in the local papers.

A police car backing onto the pavement
momentarily hijacks my attention.
When the car speeds off with the cat on board
the old man has stepped right out of the picture.

The scent of snow upon the wind
hints at a colder day tomorrow. -
Far above the frosty rooftops
floats a pale white moon.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
Poem sketched, January 22nd. - 23rd. 2016.
January 1st. 2017. - August 7th. 2017.