Poetry Centre

The busman’s holiday

  • The old route from Harcourt to Headington Hill
    Has some strange appeal for my bicycle still.
    On days when my wife wants the West End for fun
    Its spokes spool the roads that my bus would’ve done.

    Why keep on repeating what you’ve done for years?
    She whines in the hollows of retiring ears.
    But this is a secret I’ll keep to myself.
    The joy of a journey that’s carrying nobody else.

    by Will May