Snap

Brace yourself my dear.
It’s a holiday in Cumbria.
Cut short.

The market place.
A Kendal mint cake crisis.

Paperbacks.
bric a brac.
frisbee cd,
a cup of tea.

Silly old me.

I touched your slice.
Did not ask you see.
You reared up,
like Black Beauty.
Horse and froth.

You threw your bag,
at my head.
Knocked me off my feet.

I lay there with Martin Amis,
and his London Fields.
The best of Nick Drake,
spinning like a coin.
The northern sky,
just out of reach.

My Fathers watch,
smashed.
Stuck at 11.33am.

Twice a day,
it's correct.

A local passed.
‘Time you went home',
he said.