I heard the mission bell; it sounded like a cell phone ringing, or beeping, or buzzing. I was on the bus last week. I use it regularly in winter because two wheels, motorised and un, freeze me slowly. The walk to the bus-stop clears the lungs and head, at least it does until I step on the bus.
Twenty people on the bus, heads at 90°, texting, Whatsapping, emailing, surfing; whatever they’re doing. That’s OK, free country and who am I to care? So I whipped out my notebook and ever-present 2H pencil and started writing. The noise of lead scratching paper could have been one of H.G. Wells’ Martians yelling “Ulla!” the noise was so alien.
In front of me a head righted itself and probably swum from finding itself in a hitherto unknown position. To the side of me fingers stopped doing whatever they were doing and someone who could have exited the bendy-bus at the other door decided to walk past, catching a snide glance at my activity. Fairly bloody surreal for an 8.00am bus ride.
So, I decided I had a mission, not impossible and not even difficult but a mission nonetheless. Every morning or evening or both, I would write a poem. Chances are it may not be a very good one but a poem it would be. Today’s one went OK, at least I liked it and that matters more than anything else, and it goes a little like this:
Hours
The hours slip through time,
as time seeps through the hours;
flowers
mark the beginning
and the end of time
Celebration of life and death
Eyes open for the first time
or close for the last
and tears tear the heart
But now life grows
and time never slows
But seeps through the hours.
Reflections: Word up, word out 