A bus moves north, taking someone
home, again. A smoke-scented,
plush-matted seat in moving gallery,
exhibition entitled Life Lived Small
(or, Perhaps it’s Grim Up North).
Glass flicks 50mph - rough stone
cottage here, rusted tractor there,
main colours grey, green, blue.
One image (Boilersuit-Clad Man
on Distant Slate Roof) seems more
valid than the rest. Prompts us
to question what it is we see, feel,
in the face of his existence. Who is he?
Does he have thoughts like us, emotions,
like us? When we have passed him by,
will he go on? Or stop? Will he be
in our heads, can he see we are here?
Glass flicks, time flits, we must assume
the roof got fixed. Has he left, or is he
dead? Does he live and think of us?
Someone thinks of him, though,
thinks of how they’ll never, really, know.
Maxine Rose Munro is a widely published poet, including in Northwords Now; Glasgow Review of Books; Pushing Out the Boat; and The Eildon Tree. She has also published poetry in her native Shetlandic Scots, most recently in Poetry Scotland and Three Drops from a Cauldron. Find her here www.maxinerosemunro.com