Weekends away are all right

in Topsham or Lincoln, with friends

who keep you up talking all night

as though you were students again . . .

 

Cathedrals with Pevsner in hand,

walks by the estuary where

a gloriously unplanned

evening once was shared . . .

 

The occasional joint, just to make you

remember when you didn’t mind

not being in control – now the daycrew’s

in charge the whole chargeable time . . .

 

And once you’ve finished joking

about who was in bed with whom,

that memory of entering

a new, enormous room . . .

 

But when you’re alone on the train

on the way back to Monday’s dull grind

does a voice in the back of your brain

                                                     mock

those still stuck in what you’ve left behind?






Published in Snakeskin 259, March 2019