Friday, 10 June 2016


Thanks to Paul Mortimer for inviting me to read at the Tiverton Poetry Cafe last night. This post is one of the poems I read there.
It is an autobiographical poem and I wrote it last autumn. Since then I have been moving the lines around to get the right feel to the piece.
One time, in Italy, did I ever tell you this?
It was the holiday when the car engine blew up
and we had to get the train home.
Well, before all of that, we were stopped at the lights,
opposite this man in a car wash,
as bold as you please,
all soaped up, having a shower.

This is the third retelling
since you arrived three days ago.
I think this latest recounting,
has been sparked by the men hand washing cars
just now, as I filled up at the petrol station.
You watched their red, chapped hands
dip into buckets of cold water.

The cutting November wind heralds more than the coming winter.
I am leaving you with Billy Bragg and Joe Henry singing The Midnight Special off their forthcoming LP.

1 comment:

  1. The feel is 3D being there. In the bucket. In the fatigue and acceptance. In the bruised ache of memory.