This poem has been published a few times-In BURNER originally i think. It was written in Costa Coffee on Division Street in Sheffield, quite rapidly, whilst observing the interaction of a girl and her boyfriend who were next to me for 30 minutes or so.
Sunday morning, and you dawn
After too much Chianti you wake up late
To a crush of vibrant birdsong
In a violent light of city daybreak.
The languid bourgeoisie are still loafing
Smugly over orange juice and ‘Daily Mails’
Your eyes sting, face smeared with mascara
The face in the mirror blotched and pale.
A flood of images; Saturday night
Your thoughts drop like pebbles into water
Each with a splash of avowed escape
The ravenous dreams of an only daughter.
The iPod opens a drowsy subtext
Of other lives and Sunday stirrings
Sweet bathos of the loved and lost
You doss around for hours, long past caring.
If I could show your future now I would
The claustrophobic web of vague deceits
And the little spurts of assertiveness
Before your sullen, brooding late retreats.
I would find a city to fit your soul
Then pack your bags and check the times
I would book your wing and say a prayer
And find you space to say your last goodbyes.
Platform 8 for Camden or Bloomsbury?
With your books, your secret looks and violin
All packed and ready for a long sojourn
To save your dreams; but how could I begin?