counting west country arc bridges from the back seat
homemade eyespy undone
and
cold services petrol carparks in before dawn dark
strange foyers
and tiny arcades empty
and
men doing their teeth in the toilet sinks
i'd been carried asleep to the car in pyjamas
and given a rug
and when we got there the rooms smell like
the inside of wooden wardrobes
with
their swaying empty attached hangers
i'd have a new t shirt or a new jumper for dusk
to hang in there
or lay on a small shelf splintered on the edges
they'd be oxtail soup off a plastic table cloth
and
a
man
who took pictures he developed into tiny red plastic viewers
to buy
other families with other cars had other rooms on other
detergent smelling floors
other parents with other jobs and other children with other toys
after dusk walks by low rocks and floodlights in bushes
i'd
sleep
thinking about the toys i didn't bring
under thick blankets
sea air in my freckle nose
and early seagulls echo song would wake me
to
picnic packing and maps and plans
to National Trust mansions and open farms
in
a
long
day of weather and ham rolls in the car
they'd be the burnt diesel smell of small model motor boats
and the lying allure of a red rollercoaster
and
beach blankets
and
rock pools of plastic sail boats
and
brave swims in the freezing sea
and
photographs from the camera
to look at weeks later
where we all do our same poses
and
peanuts and fizzy pop on the patterned gold table top
in the hotels tiny bar
till
the tiny sadness of packing and travelling backwards
with
a
new
thing from a small shop in my hand
all the way home
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