Journeying

When feeling the need to visit our past  
I write with school-pen-words my time-machine,  
then, distances to bridge are not so vast  
from when we began to dream our brief dream.  

Those cold brick bus-shelters, echoes of school,  
in those blustery mad, mad, march, mornings,  
while other's screamed, playing the silly fool,  
close, in your Parka, I felt new warmings.  
 
But, I've no idea of how well you fared  
did you become a husband, a father?  
But I remember, oh, how we both dared  
although young, to go further and further...  
 
As we wheeled away cocooned on that bus,  
I wished it to last, to the terminus.