The poet with a bus pass, br boarded the number 63 br that left from the edge of the town. br Now he rushed red, scraping br the green of ancient hedges. br br From the top deck, br through the front window br he drank in the view; br his inspiration. br br Scribbled phrases br rested on his shaky lap; br later to be honed br and positioned br by the moving br fingers of experience. br br The tractor br in a distant field br would become br a black charger br stampeding br the marsh meadows. br br Burning stumps br of summer corn br the breath br of some internecine dragon. br br Lines of waving trees, br soldiers awaiting br the bugle call to charge br br Fluffy clouds br would roll br like the smoke of battle. br br He would see the ghosts br of the defeated, marching br amid the mist of streams. br br His return ticket, br lay in his pocket... br br like a second poem.