Cassandra and the Double-Decked Doom

My first English morning, too young to die,
I rocketed down the wrong side of the road
in a bus as red as blood and twice as high
as a scream: there was another swaying load
of Times readers hurtling down on us
from the wrong side of the road, too,
hell-for-leather.
Somebody punched my ticket as bus met bus,
missing by inches. Over tomorrow’s weather
my seat-mate softly snored; as usual,
I was cursed with a daylong view of doom dawning
double-decked over the next hill,
and the rest of the world yawning.