A Writer of Sorts
Sing me dark songs with
A voice of ash and heaven
Wake me from slumber
centuries dead; their last remnants
lie trapped in flagstone and asphalt.
Wakened by welcome summer rain
we breathe the dust of empires.
Davy’s of Dover
Tottering on the stub and clack
My Mum, replete in navy slacks,
ushers us to Davy’s van
to buy us fish and chips.
The salt and fat and ketchup packs
The chips; the scraps; the batter cracks.
There’s pickled eggs in acid vats,
They’ll never pass my lips!
We sit among the bladderwrack
and feast on grease and haddock that’s
a thruppence ha’penny heart attack
by any other name.
As fragile Kentish weather snaps
we turn our backs on tourist traps.
Acetic vapors call us back
To Davy’s Van-On-Sea.