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Contents Page: April 1, 2011, vol 7 no 1

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Colin Stewart Jones

 

Tribute

I stare intermittently out of the bus window. Partly to keep track of where I am and partly to avoid changing the blank expressions of the other passengers. There is not a sound except for the engine and the nasal tones of the junkies at the back. Thank God. Four more stops and I'll be home.

As we pass the school playing field I spy some cheerfully coloured flowers. Out of place for this time of year. My thoughts run wild—whose child? In the fading light this arrangement by random hands seems, somehow, laden with the relief of the fortunate. I wipe the condensation from the window and turn to look again. My wreaths and bouquets are simply wind-blown sweet wrappers and crisp packets caught in the weld-mesh fence.

For the rest of the journey I curse myself for always thinking the worst. I press the bell and pick up my shopping from the seat and start walking towards the doors. Lurching forward as the driver brakes too hard, somehow, I avoid the pram in the aisle. I exchange smiles with the baby boy and look up to his scowling mother who pulls the pram closer as I pass.

exposed nest –
so many scenarios
yet to play

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crane