I remember the Grand Tour,
you gave us of your childhood.
Forced to admire your views,
Trudging beneath the February skies
of your overcast eyes.
"That must have been awful?" was the script
handed, complete with highlighter marks, for us
Clearing our throats like
dusty attics to meet with your
melodramatic demands, we didn't need to
be prompted. On the contrary
we willingly gave in to
your assault, giving up the land
that someone had worked once upon a time.
The gift shop, was silent.
We laughed at the childish things
that toyed with the real absences of our
A shadow stretched its small arms
from the Gothic Tower to
the Grotto. My mind swam up
the river like the A3 weekend traffic.
The smell of petrol fumes on the
leaves sang hymns to now.