Last bus – First love
Flaming red hair, a tender touch I bid farewell
back then it knew no bounds
endless, forever it seemed
love-wrapped in sensuous delight
ambled to the bus stop.
Was he a steward of my heart?
a grinning soothsayer declined my outstretched hand
number seven coughed rancid fumes, it passed
to flaming love returned, embraced,
taxi driver nodded as I said goodbye.
Years roll over the dim recollections
other buses beckoned with a lover’s outstretched hand
the flaming hair of first love never lost
the memory in the corner of my eye
for other’s sweethearts number seven still rolls by.
Norman Morrow was a child of the sixties, but too young to enjoy the excesses of that era. Born in the west of Ireland, he now lives outside Dublin with his wife and seven children, no room for cats or dogs.
Fly fishing has been a lifelong passion. He coaches underage Rugby and Hurling and spends most weekends driving the kids to matches.