morning
when the end comes
as it surely will
you imagine yourself spending your last
few hundred pounds
and driving toward
the Severn bridge
before the Welsh close it off to us
and swathe it in razor wire.
the back of the van filled with:
a small mattress
an arctic sleeping bag
sacks of lentils and potatoes
a small box of books
and some of that good orange juice
that only LIDL sell
you head first to Wiltshire
say a couple of goodbyes
give your copy of Jerusalem
to Paddington
then maybe think twice
about driving through Bristol
the traffic wardens are armed now
you head up through south Cerney
to the forest of Dean
that great wooded hill
where Rosemary West
still roams free
around Monmouth
Brecon
bypassing all towns
now fortified
guarded
24-7
and running out of fuel
three quarters of the way
across the Abergwesyn pass:
you lay down to sleep
awaken at dawn
then walk the hard road
through the morning fog
coming through the mist
a man in a poncho
stained with blood and oil
no arms and a poodle
attached to his waist
with baler twine
you nod
he nods back
not long now, he says
you walk on
