The Blonde At The Bus Stop

The blonde at the bus stop
smells of last night's fag end kebab
and nail polish remover.

There is that smeared look round her eyes
from her Viking ancestors who scanned the horizon
and saw the raw edge of the world.

Here be dragons
on the vellum of her shoulders
and blood-eagle exposed nerves.

A winged helmet rusts
in the drowned ruins of East Anglia
and it starts to rain as the 252 arrives.