BUS JOURNEY INTO BOLTON

Two men collide in a badly timed handshake,
Nervous of the too long gap between their last meeting.
Swallows cut through the steel sky above them
Autumn breeze playing around them,
Carrying disowned leaves like surf boards.

I sit, hoping the bus driver know what he's doing
Pitching the mammoth vehicle into ambitious stunts
Death defying swerves, accelerating to curves.
We pass the green belt, a fenced off swamp
Spot of grass long forgotten, a relic.

Towards the centre, darkening clouds
The minarets of a mosque rise awkwardly
Above the grey slate of the terrace roofs,
Nestled, the Asian quarter, between those satanic mills
Where a packaging company burrow into the

night under hot orange bulbs.

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