On Highgate Hill
How it rained;
we caught the bus up Highgate Hill
past Whittington’s cat and the hospital.
The driver insisted he was full –
twenty wet children, pleading, shrill:
how it rained.
How it snowed;
the bus got stuck on Highgate Hill
and we stood on the pavement in pumps and heels,
children pelted the windows and wheels –
their walk to school a wild white thrill:
how it snowed.
How it shone;
we held our breath down Highgate Hill
through stinking heat. A teenage girl
chucked study-guides across the aisle,
a boy spat on Swiss Army steel
and it shone,
how it shone;
the children kicked their seats until
the driver came roaring up out of his stall.
He bent in the middle. We saw it all.
The engine turned over. Traffic stood still.
How it shone.
from Infragreen, Seren, 2015