The result of my two-hour writely residency this morning...
St Margaret's Bus Station
Stop to look
at the giant slab of the roof
dropped between the ring road
and the dull red brick
of Sandacre and Short Street.
a high ceiling of steel beams
and concertinaed walls of glass
enclose a hall
one hundred and twenty paces end to end.
A room to wait and greet
where place names read like poetry:
Is this your drab commute
of diesel exhaust and sausage rolls
served in a greasy caff?
Or the set for Bond or Jason Bourne
to weave and dodge in hot pursuit.
Could it be a brief encounter's final scene?
A final touch
and the scent from a lover's skin.