I’ve never been on the bus to Gannow,

but then I’ve also never been to Canterbury

or Durham or even slipped into Rio,

admittedly the last one a bit harder to do from

the bus stops outside of

New Street Station, at least in a day and without

stopping to look at the marvel of Christ,

stoney faced, eager and

ready to bungee jump.

 

I’ve never made my way to Gannow,

neither have I seen where the 50 goes beyond King’s Heath,

I have never made my way to California,

though the one stormed by apes as they cross the Golden Gate Bridge

is the one I’d rather see.

I have avoided by quirk of disappointment

making my way to Turves Green,

threatened with attending senior school there,

moving to Bicester before that fate arose.

 

I have no idea what Gannow looks like,

it might be fairly groovy, though I don’t suppose

it matches up to Liverpool in the rain, Warsaw in the snow

or London at the height of the bubonic plague or Civil war,

purely for historical purposes of course.

 

It cannot compare to the thrill of being a Selly Park boy

of having Cornish blood rage through the veins,

of growing up in Bicester, of running away to America

and yet deep down inside, somewhere in the gentle pocket

of self interest,

I long to take the bus to Gannow

just to see what’s there.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015.