The A14, which runs the hundred miles
from Leicestershire to Felixstowe, is crossed
by roads and railway tracks. What truly riles
is in Northants., the bureaucrats, they botched
and built no bridge for walking types – not keen
on those whose journeys don’t pollute. So all
who hike the tourist path along the Nene
must catapult across the cars – the old,
the children, everyone. So I propose,
to take the piss of bureaucratic dross,
to sculpt gigantic trampolines, and pose
a granny, flying through in the air, across
the carriageways. The Angel of the North
be damned: we’ll have The Nanna Of The Fens.
This poem was published in the November 2001 edition of Island.