Wythall
by Dave Pitt
There’s quite a few
Who normally pass through
Today they rightly assume
the day job can do
without them for an hour or two.
So they stop.
One calls it quaint.
Another one Cosy.
Quiet.
A place where
you’re not constantly required
to be feeding the fire.
They tap their feet to the unrushed
seconds that skip along
with a subtle swing beat.
It comforts them like when after rain
you get sunshine
and they’re sure that’s a line
they’ve heard before.
Somewhere near here.
The ten to comes into view.
Trundles to a stop.
They could get on this one.
But maybe not.