Poetry

Intermission

You've not been paying much attention
to the hedges around your head.
They are fizzing like drawings and pressed for time.

Which scab have you been picking at today?
No one's seen you eat. Posture, hayfeverish.
Face, stepping backwards.

The nights are getting close together,
shallow ends fill and empty and pick a side
but your service words still loop the loops they always did.

It's intermission soon
so we're hurdling the weekend seaside
in a big daft caravan, with a fortune of anecdotes to spend.

How cold is it outside? It's not warm.
Should we bring a coat? Maybe, but then again,
we might just be alright.

Lucy Holt