01-20-2014, 01:01 PM
Thanks a lot Cloudy, I've made some edits based on your feedback.
I'm trying to present the journey from my perspective initially shifting to the collective voice of those departing in stanza 5.
Let me know if that's still not working, otherwise I'll revamp completely.
Edit 2
Departures
The bus lolls and rolls
through Pullamore roundabout.
A flat glaring new year day
tints the cabin with monochromatic tones
of by gone times, acutely framing time gone by,
highlighting broad bay windows
of vacant retail units drifting past.
Shells, fossils from a more prosperous era
when worries were few.
It was for different reasons then
that people flew.
Lough Ramor flows north from my west
and the sight of the southernmost drumlin near Carnaross
raises a lump in my throat.
"They have them in the States" I'm told,
but I'm certain they're not the same.
Fields awash with snow-melt
and recent hail blur beside me;
a scene more blue than green today.
Sweeping onto the N3 upgrade,
the "new road" as it's known,
a previously arduous trip
disappears in a single shift.
Homesteads turn to homes,
to semi-detacheds, to apartment complexes
and arcing swiftly onto the Dublin City ring road
I note a now pain free traffic management node.
Perhaps progress has been made after all.
Terminal 1 soon looms on our left
and a melancholic echo
thickly resounds in glum air
when the driver needlessly announces
"We've arrived at Dublin airport".
Luggage doors operate
and hunched shoulders struggle with bags
heavier now, despite gifts having been given.
Plodding, wheeling,
we pass lover's kisses
young sibling's carefree shrugs
and vice-like motherly hugs
as the odd solitary explorer
sucks a last cigarette.
Stiff pats are delivered to backs
and firm handshakes linger.
Restrained tender respect.
Typically Hibernian.
No one here is away for a break.
It's easier departing.
Afforded the sterile anaesthesia
of bag drops and security checks
(always uncertain of legality)
boarding calls, safety demonstrations,
baggage carousels and a destination
transported from nostalgia's source.
Unlike loved ones
trudging back
to grim stacked shelves of cars
still to retrace a familiar route.
This time in darkness.
Hands fiercely clasp upon a gear stick.
The anchor of grounded emotion now airborne
soft sobs reverberate amidst the white noise
slow motion motorway strobe.
An emptier car streaming
towards an emptier house.
But later, once expensive phone calls
have confirmed safe arrivals
orthodromic distances
evaporate with a kettle's click.
Freshly smuggled batches of Lyons,
or Barry's, brew in scalded pots
and cups of sweet tea
soothe the last of the day's dejection.
A warm reminder, redolent of home,
that place is no measure
of whether we're alone.
I'm trying to present the journey from my perspective initially shifting to the collective voice of those departing in stanza 5.
Let me know if that's still not working, otherwise I'll revamp completely.
Edit 2
Departures
The bus lolls and rolls
through Pullamore roundabout.
A flat glaring new year day
tints the cabin with monochromatic tones
of by gone times, acutely framing time gone by,
highlighting broad bay windows
of vacant retail units drifting past.
Shells, fossils from a more prosperous era
when worries were few.
It was for different reasons then
that people flew.
Lough Ramor flows north from my west
and the sight of the southernmost drumlin near Carnaross
raises a lump in my throat.
"They have them in the States" I'm told,
but I'm certain they're not the same.
Fields awash with snow-melt
and recent hail blur beside me;
a scene more blue than green today.
Sweeping onto the N3 upgrade,
the "new road" as it's known,
a previously arduous trip
disappears in a single shift.
Homesteads turn to homes,
to semi-detacheds, to apartment complexes
and arcing swiftly onto the Dublin City ring road
I note a now pain free traffic management node.
Perhaps progress has been made after all.
Terminal 1 soon looms on our left
and a melancholic echo
thickly resounds in glum air
when the driver needlessly announces
"We've arrived at Dublin airport".
Luggage doors operate
and hunched shoulders struggle with bags
heavier now, despite gifts having been given.
Plodding, wheeling,
we pass lover's kisses
young sibling's carefree shrugs
and vice-like motherly hugs
as the odd solitary explorer
sucks a last cigarette.
Stiff pats are delivered to backs
and firm handshakes linger.
Restrained tender respect.
Typically Hibernian.
No one here is away for a break.
It's easier departing.
Afforded the sterile anaesthesia
of bag drops and security checks
(always uncertain of legality)
boarding calls, safety demonstrations,
baggage carousels and a destination
transported from nostalgia's source.
Unlike loved ones
trudging back
to grim stacked shelves of cars
still to retrace a familiar route.
This time in darkness.
Hands fiercely clasp upon a gear stick.
The anchor of grounded emotion now airborne
soft sobs reverberate amidst the white noise
slow motion motorway strobe.
An emptier car streaming
towards an emptier house.
But later, once expensive phone calls
have confirmed safe arrivals
orthodromic distances
evaporate with a kettle's click.
Freshly smuggled batches of Lyons,
or Barry's, brew in scalded pots
and cups of sweet tea
soothe the last of the day's dejection.
A warm reminder, redolent of home,
that place is no measure
of whether we're alone.