poetry diary

The slow scrumpling of the rain:
I see lights, like statues in the dark,
still against the restless night.

Slowly they come;
rolling softly down the road,
dousing lamps as they pause.
Forming lines;
waiting.

Waiting.
A train passes.
The rain rains.
Strange rows, in silence.
Waiting.

And then the bus,
alone and purposed,
arriving with a sigh;
long, low hiss of success,
and call to arms.

Boys emerge, and men;
tired of travel,
lost and cold.

And welcomed in
to guardian angel arms,
doors open and close;
lights and engines rise, now,
and disperse.

© 2011 Matthew Rhodes

An unexpected response to this week’s prompt (43) from wewritepoems that came to me while waiting to collect my son returning from the airport after a trip with the school choir to sing in Rome.