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
those still stuck in what you’ve left behind?
Published in Snakeskin 259, March 2019