Cold on the Bus

snow on bus

It’s cold on the bus this morning,
Frost coats the inside of the window.
Making my morning commute,
A chilly mystery tour.
Cold breath escapes mouths,
Rising slovenly into the air.
As hands huddle in pockets
While collars are all turned up.
I scratch at the glass,
Wondering where we are.
Cars shoot by, cosy wombs of warmth,
Sparking jealously as I shiver.
My iPod plays summer songs,
Fake warmth into my ears
While my toes cringe
As winter bites hard.
I contemplate getting my pen out
To commit my cold to paper
Thinking better of it
My hands remain in my pocket’s toasty nests.
Cold doesn’t inspire, or does it?
Does nature’s chill not slow synapses
But instead produce
A hot spark of creativity?
Surely without the inspiration of cold,
We’d never have discovered fire?
Lucky ancestors I think
As I wonder when I’ll arrive and feel warm again.

8 thoughts on “Cold on the Bus

  1. I love that your poem took me back to my days in UK as a kid – and freezing on the way to school!
    And yes, I do think that having to adapt to a much cooler climate did spur our ancestors on to be more inventive. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Pingback: Creative Waste – an interview with Richard Archer – pAul B mOrris

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