Of Winter Afternoons in 2023

 

Of Winter Afternoons in 2023

 

 

They clap-boarded high street pubs decades ago

to make way for fucking Littlewoods, BHS, Wilko

but they’re dead, no more and time will blow

through each sodden gutter, each held out hand,

is praying that those oppressors soon will land

because it doesn’t get much worse than this.

Your weathered Brexiteers are permagreyed

and beaten up; trip on thinning sleeping bags,

unpocketing vinegary hands is a bloody drag

but tonight thank God it's them. Hearts heaving,

grieving, running our road between this and that,

you’re bunkered in for the New Year’s; you’re sat

with lover's dross, make unmerry and raw regret,

drifting thoughts to me, for you can never forget

what of the chances? Here is no landing for love,

wring out wrought hearts and suck on your gloves.