The Phantom BusA Poem by David Lewis PagetShe didn’t look awfully well that day Though she never would make a fuss, I said we should get to the hospital That I’d travel with her on the bus. The weather was terrible, snow on the road And a seaborne yellow mist, So I wrapped her well in a scarf and coat And did my best to assist.
She leant on me, walked out to the stop And we sat on the ice cold bench, I thought for a moment she’d faint or drop So taking the bus made sense. The car would be hard to manage that night For the roads were covered with ice, I couldn’t hold her while driving the car, But we needed a doctor’s advice.
The cough had got worse as the day went on And her hanky was spattered with blood, I prayed it was just a vessel that burst, Not that I thought it should, But consumption sat at the back of my mind It was rare, but still around, I was praying a lot, but still my head Would cover the same old ground.
We watched as the lights of the bus rolled up So dim in the mist to see, A double-decker, we climbed aboard It was number twenty-three. The passengers all were grey and drab And some of them seemed asleep, A skeleton sat hunched up at the rear And Kathie began to weep.
‘It’s only a medical student’s thing,’ I said, ‘there’s nothing to fear.’ But Kathie flinched as we walked on past, ‘Then why did he leave it here?’ She settled down in a window seat While I sat next to the aisle, And the bus rolled into the swirling mist So we sat quite still for a while.
The lights in the bus were more than dim And Kathie was looking grey, While I got up at the hospital stop Kathie was looking away. Then suddenly I was out on the road As the bus took off in the mist, While Kathie stared through the window pane, It was like she didn’t exist.
I ran and I ran, and chased the bus, But I ran and ran in vain, For the bus veered off, went over the cliffs And vanished into the rain, I found her there on the bus stop bench Where we’d sat, all grey and still, And I wept, and thought of the phantom bus That had taken her over the hill.
I could swear we’d stood, and climbed on the bus, My love, my Kathie and me, But they said there never was such a bus As a number twenty-three, And I see her now in my dreams at night As she stares through the window pane, Of a phantom bus that takes her away, Over the cliffs in the rain.
Over the cliffs on a freezing night When she died, ice cold on the bench, What was I thinking, I ask myself, Where was my common sense? Then I take some comfort to think that I Had once been a part of us, And travelled some of the way with her Where she’d gone, on the phantom bus.
David Lewis Paget © 2015 David Lewis PagetFeatured Review
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Added on January 7, 2015Last Updated on January 7, 2015 Tags: hospital, mist, consumption, blood Author
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