TAKING THE BUS HOME (Newport – Ventnor)

Small shops – Zen Beauty, Game Shop and Noodle Pot – approach the school corner, a redbrick bounded playground. Front seat, double-deck, I am a camera translating the overlooked. Double-checking the cow parsley fringes as mist descends. The poet as pissed impressionist.

Down familiar chutes and rising into fog, wind whines over engine drone. We stop twice for Rookley’s new bungalows, making up time already. Patience, patience.

Is there still a dogs’ home waiting at Bohemia Corner?

Remembering a first fondling of breasts at Godshill’s bus stop. At sixteen I got no further; write what you know. Not the last sorry on my CV either. Tearing on through Sandford where my father always pulled off for petrol.

Taking, like the rolling English road, a long way right at Whitley Bank to head for Wroxall – its eccentrics restrained only by temporary traffic lights. The crap new names of pubs: Four Seasons? Who wants Vivaldi when you’re after a pint?

All sports floodlit at Upper Ventnor but not a player in sight. A blank green screen. Not so the Olympic cartoon mural, hand painted huge on a whole house side. Torch and map, in case one lacked direction.

The twisty turning descent passes by what was Julisa’s , from where we were thrown out. No place for rugby scrums on their dance floor. What else is missing? The Hole In The Wall has been filled in. Where’s The Rex and its silver screen? At least The Volunteer remains and serves.

More time to make up, tucked in opposite Boots; the bus depot long since asset stripped. All about is antique, for sale decay. Air brakes sink to accommodate the weight of new out bound riders. 
Localism diminishes with every slap of overhung branch on windscreen.

vii.2012