The motorway can be long and dry –
like the summers here, the sun
beating down on empty streets
stay inside, look out on disused
fields and cemeteries, dirty
rivers and walls of nettles
christmas comes quicker and
the nights are longer, but still
empty beer cans, still the nettles
dirty rivers and the same stores
the only options two hours
from the beach or the city
and while I’ve friends here,
I’ve a little family too
I am still grateful that I got out
and I hope, someday, so will you


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Filed under Poetry, Writing

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