Poetry

Prophet’s Fallacy

Remember that time
you prophesised
I’d be at Cambridge
ten years down the line?

Unknowingly adrift,
I longed for this Jerusalem
(in somewhere called East Anglia)
and angled a decade’s pilgrimage
in its direction.

In my teenage years
I found it:
Stone, slab, water.
Town of toffee frowns 
and nasal altitude; my nose bled
imitating the interminable.

When you found out I didn’t take
a punt
your steel eyes sunk
to the lump of scrap
lying at

your feet.
A promise you made
that I didn’t keep.

Ryan Bramley