It's morning and it's just the two of us
in the Transit crew-bus, driving out to work,
past dew-hung spruce, in this neck of the woods.
The floor is strewn
with chainsaws, chains, tools, grease-guns, tubes of grease
while the whole van stinks of sap and two-stroke mix.
I would screw my oil stained Maxproof coat up
into a ball
and try to grab some kip but today I just can't sleep.
And it's not the jolting over pot-holed roads
or the flare of light that's keeping me awake –
I'm worried sick.
Geoff is smoking pre-rolled Holborn roll-ups
by the barrow-load. He flicks the greasy butts
out of the narrow window slit and says,
frankly, not much.
The towering Sitka spin by, blue and gorgeous
in the warmth of the brilliant, early morning sun
and it's all so picturesque that I am overcome
with a desire
to unburden, to share. So I brace myself and say:
Here, kid. What's thu want?
I think I might have got me girlfriend pregnant.
There. I did it.
He changes down a gear, furrows his brow,
sucks once on his rolly and then speaks:
It's nowt clever, lad. Rats do it every six weeks.
I was hoping
for something a little more reflective,
some empathy, a sympathetic ear perhaps,
but you have to admit it puts things
into perspective.
http://www.timturnbull.co.uk/poems.htm
