This week, the Poetry Bus is being piloted once more by the learned Professor Jeanne Iris over at Revolutionary Revelry, where the challenges - for there be three of them - have been set.
I chose the prompt about summer. Now, my ticket may not be entirely valid for this journey as we were supposed to write about a sensory experience connected to a summer memory but, being a bit rubbish and a bit rushed, I thought I'd write about something a friend and I did when we were twelve, maybe thirteen. It is a summer thing, it is a memory, and it contains the word hottest, so I just hope the ticket inspector doesn't choose this journey to come and inspect our tickets.
It was the brightest day of the hottest summer ever.
We were thirteen and we had a plan.
We had talked of it, thought of it, imagined it,
And now it was finally to be. Finding Day,
The day we were going to search for it.
We had seen it from the bus,
We had seen it from the road,
Peeking above the distant houses,
Geodesic, white and mysterious.
Avid devourers of Asimov, Wells,
Arthur C Clarke and all the Science-Fiction rest,
We dreamed our own purpose upon the dome,
Alien, faceted, and gleaming white
Amid the Gasworks' grimy grey pipe and clutter.
Armed with our wits and tepid orange squash,
Unhindered by the gluey tar of melting roads,
We navigated back-street and waste ground.
Then, through chain-link diamonds, we gazed in wonder.
We had got as close as mere mortals were allowed.
The dome loomed silent over us, forever beyond reach.
This was a place hallowed to Authorised Personnel Only.
KEEP OUT signs and padlocks were to defeat us in the end.
That, and the fact it was nearly teatime.
To this day, we never got any closer to our dome.
To this day, its purpose remains a mystery.
To this day, we get together for lunch sometimes
And laugh about our Summer Quest.