as if by magic.....

One, easing the poetry bus down Radcliffe Road, approaching the bridge that spans the mighty Tonge.

Two, its last journey, all decisions made, Metro Salvage assure me they pay “top prices”.

Three, Joe, six, chunnering in the seat behind, goofing about school.

Four, BANG!

Five, brown blur slaps windscreen, disappears as brakes slam.

Six, simultaneous thoughts, (is that possible?) A child? A dog? No MOT.

Seven, bouncing across the bridge, on its back, an adult roe deer.

Eight, more thoughts, road kill, dying animal, handy length of cast iron pipe under seat, child on board.

Nine, Joe, “that was silly”, as animal comes to halt twenty yards away.

Ten, car sweeps round hairpin bend at far end of bridge.

Eleven, prepare for carnage, should I shield child from horror?

Twelve, observe deer struggle to feet (no broken legs then), pauses as if to leap bridge parapet.

Thirteen, think “don’t do it”, thirty foot drop into mighty Tonge.

Fourteen, deer looks at car, looks at van, canters towards us; “see Joe it’s a deer”.

Fifteen, scooting past, dives into the ginnel it came from, between river and  churchyard.

Sixteen, in the mirror, the crossing lady from St Stephen’s stares in disbelief.

Seventeen, pinch myself, count blessings for no road kill or need for kerbside butchery.

Eighteen, drive Joe to school, and the poetry bus to oblivion.

Nineteen, Monday morning, 8.45.  The week starts here.

Twenty, beat Metro up from £80 to £120. Good bye poetry bus.