for Kit Fryatt

In times gone past, it was the norm for men
of words to hide in lines of heartfelt depth
a dark delightful lady. Now I pen
such lines myself, to intimate the breadth
that can be found in tales of many pubs,
or riding on the back of bikes—‘ there’s more,
much more than this
’. But now she’s left to floods
of tears, advanced to lordly duties, for
she won the Tring estate at cards. No cars
will run the motorway again, replaced
by fields of black or tannin plants. All bars
will only serve an Irish pint. If chased,
her man will face the cad with daggered scorn
and duel: Mornington Crescent at dawn.

This poem was published by Never Bury Poetry.