Feeling sick as yellow daffodils
Yet to make an annual appearance.
That day the air was sharpened
Biting their ears like rifle shots.
They had parted with a whisper,
a kiss, echoes of hard words
Dulled by a silencer of stiff upper lip.
The key turned, the engine fired
Driving, such statistical hazard
Passing rural nameless faces,
Wood pigeons calling for calm.
Life rolled forward on tarmacadam
The office hummed coffee flavoured
idle gossip. Before the phones rang
And daily dirge of calls commenced.
Inside the busy bubble of monotony
For a second it slipped from thought
Until time stopped, sound sucked back.
Until the distance voice was drowned
Out amid the sirens blaring out
She called him, no answer, she waits.
London had coughed, then continued.
Later on, when her anxious breath released
he mentioned, the bus had been cancelled.