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?
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Tom Vaughan would be pleased
to hear them.