An unlikely collection this, shuffling

on to the bus at Waterloo, two

with overloaded rucksacks, dangerous

only because they are clumsy and unaware

of old ladies toppling behind their backs,

one with a suitcase of tumbled clothes,

all black. No chance that anyone has packed

the frankincense, no myrrh here.

On the bridge a flock of skateboarders

comes on board with talk of Max and Weasel,

their butterflip or boardslide and the hope

of a calfwrap. At the next stop,

shoppers arrive bearing gifts

in plastic bags with famous names in varied

fonts but no spice or gold for a king,

more likely bedroom slippers

for a wife, or scented candles for the bath.

On a mobile phone, someone is asking

about a child. This bus has no ambition,

it is not following any star, only

the route laid down from A to B,

this far, no further. So passing St Paul’s

no one expects a choir of angels

and the bells are silent, saving themselves