He has paid a small coin to a glass box 
like a fairground machine:

a dull purple ticket 
permits him to sway with the tram,

which pushes on through a city of breezeblocks 
and neo-baroque stucco.

The people might be 
his second cousins twice removed:

a woman in fishmonger's gloves 
coming home from the market,

a man balancing two dusty old bikes 
between fellow-passengers.

In this incarnation, his tweed suit 
is not quite threadbare enough.

He maintains a sense of direction but 
there's nowhere it can take him.

Somewhere at the end of this line 
is a field of dandelions and a bluebell wood.

©   Peter Daniels 
Published 2009 in The North