the silence of morning commuters

The buses were a double-decked mess this morning. Puddle dumping, slushy messes. They arrived late, then growled disconsolately off through the still-dark streets. We people aboard sat locked in privation. Some got off, some got on and were soon plugged-in to the crowded numbed-skull zone, the collective wish that we were already where we were going.

Beneath a bridge at Trongate the driver was five minutes ahead of schedule and turned off the engine. The lights went off. We were suddenly subterranean, in a dank double-decked cave with only the sound of water moving outside. Our actual silence asserted itself, upstairs and down. There we were - about 30 of us- sitting under a bridge in the dark hulk of a vehicle saying nothing. Not a cough, nor a mutter. Silence, the black panther, observing us all: immense and curled. And on and on it watched, transfixing us to its purpose.

Then the engine gratefully chuckled into life and we were released from the panther's gaze. Half the bus emptied at the next stop. I got off two stops later and headed straight to the toilet at work, for it had been a long journey. And in this cavernous place lived a troll. Finally, I could speak.

"Good morning to you, Mr Troll."
Yet he only smiled enigmatically. But he knew, he understood. Dark places beneath bridges were something of a specialist interest for him.

And off I trip-trapped to get ready for work.