By Nathan Hamilton
Blogging Norfolk contributor
By the second trip,
the drive back is familiar. It's night,
the rain already dried,
and the charge on is brutal
over road-stuck fur; a messy surrender of bugs on screen. I confess:
I'll never make the catch
of your long collapse,
or forgive a few their
skill at wounding.
The car, heavy with a swag of heirlooms,
passes unseen fields. The moon won't show.
The A47, a road from Peterborough - the city in which I used to live. It brought me here, and has taken me back.