Snow on a Birmingham Forecourt

(After visiting Kerouac’s manuscript)

Distracted by a cry of it’s snowing
and the crumpled fiver for tobacco
left as an afterthought in your hand.
I watched the fickle flecks wend
their way across the grey fence
guarding the foreground, craning
to see the source of simple chemistry;
filling the tank with our route home.
Kerouac’s scroll had floated beyond
our fingers, just minutes before, aching
at the chill of glass, we had sighed
for the hand-scrawled edits and jazz
crackling from a crooning speaker;
kissed over the journal entry –
write as you might live – we signed
the visitors’ book; bought postcards;
assured ourselves that this was one
road trip that wouldn’t be written
into a fickle-snow bound volume.

Sonia Hendy-Isaac

If you have any comments on this poem, Sonia Hendy-Isaac would like to hear from you.

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