On a single track road
the service bus is crossing the island:
its driver swinging round the corners
with accustomed ease;
pulling into passing places,
as though steering a partner
through a ceilidh
in a crowded village hall.

He is keeping time
and he starts whistling a dance tune:
perfectly pitched, poignant,
the kind that works best for a last waltz.
Suddenly, spinning the wheel,
he has us all dancing –
his bus, every single passenger
and the passing hills reflected in the loch:
dancing together –
dancing alone.