Poetry

Slack Hill

Here comes the long descent. It drops

much further than you think.

At seventeen, sardined in Billy’s purple car,

you’d all lean forwards, subtly,

like school kids on a fairground ride

and when the tarmac afterwards was flat

you’d still feel tall for miles

as Billy turned The Pixies up.

Tonight, you’re straight-backed

and alone behind the wheel

and every night this winter’s

felt like New Year’s eve,

the anti-climax of dropped leaves,

the freeze-dried air,

the road home lengthening

as, for the hundredth time,

Slack Hill begins to quicken you.

Your foot is not yet on the brake.

Helen Mort

© 2014