The winter sun pours through the clouds
and dusty windows of my coach and finds me.
Temporary blindness and inconvenience on my journey
as I try to read the pages of my book, bad luck.
The sudden distraction leaves my mind to wander
and race, until it comes to you.

The noise of silence, of an engine, of nothing
leaves me with an empty feeling, or even boredom.
The cars race past the window as I trod slowly
along the middle lane, late again.
Sat alone with no-one to talk with
and nothing to see or do, except think of you.

Of what could or would or should be,
of days not yet come to pass.
Empty fields go by with a view of only green
or winter trees or sky, nothing nearby.
My thoughts warm me through the cold
and how I wish I was travelling to you.

And then I remember why it won't happen, you and I.