They say there are signs.
Not with her.
I’m no professor
but neither am I stupid.
I asked her who she’d been seeing.
She sat there murmuring ‘Angel’.
She went north a few days
- change’ll do you good.
The solicitors said to forget it.
‘Without proof…’ they smiled.
If anything she started to brighten:
‘They’ll be cousins, same age!’
(I can’t be sure,
but I think I saw him, too.)
We left it too late, of course.
The traffic was solid,
some pop idol on the hire car radio
We stopped at a Little Chef
on a B-road somewhere in the hills.
Crystal midnight it was,
good as daylight.
Then she grew wild-eyed.
Her bawling, a blunt saw,
cut through me.
It wasn’t like in the songs.
Wonderful poem by Anthony Wilson. This is part of a series of poems written for a nativity carol service.