John Barlow
Bank Holiday
In no rush to be anywhere,
we stop the car.
By the side of the road
is an embankment,
and up the embankment runs a path,
obvious, but overgrown
with ferns and brambles.
Over the rise
might lie a bridge
across a small river,
the water bubbling and clear.
And beyond the bridge, a meadow,
with a family of goats,
asleep amongst the foxgloves
and dragonflies.
At the end of the meadow,
a small wood,
and beneath the second tree,
a patch of tall, soft grass,
just waiting for impression.
Let’s see what’s over the rise, I say.
Go on, you reply, kissing me.
I’ll wait for you here.
Page(s) 36
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