We’re on the road to Cromer,

something inside has died,

or was that wishful thinking,

a brass knuckle fight

with myself that leaves me

covered in bruises of scorn.

 

I knew a man once, who declared

with less than a twinkle in his eyes,

that he had fallen asleep

on a wrought iron park bench,

previously occupied by Norfolk pigeons

and the random blown evening newspaper,

one sunny day in that far off town.

He didn’t wake for a couple of days,