Brace yourself my dear.
It’s a holiday in Cumbria.
Cut short.
The market place.
A Kendal mint cake crisis.
Paperbacks.
bric a brac.
frisbee cd,
a cup of tea.
Silly old me.
I touched your slice.
Did not ask you see.
You reared up,
like Black Beauty.
Horse and froth.
You threw your bag,
at my head.
Knocked me off my feet.
I lay there with Martin Amis,
and his London Fields.
The best of Nick Drake,
spinning like a coin.
The northern sky,
just out of reach.
My Fathers watch,
smashed.
Stuck at 11.33am.
Twice a day,
it's correct.
A local passed.
‘Time you went home',
he said.
