180: Lift North, 1986.

  • by
  • 1 min read

Montpelier, empty,
That wind-robbed place,
As if the cruel mistral
Had fully-erased,

With maddening blasts,
All warmth-known,
And me, broke, bagged,
Foreign cash gone.

Before me, corralled,
Tour buses and trucks,
My old ramped-haunts,
Flightcases and trunks:

Catering, kick-starting,
The ragged crew;
I was recognised by
Old roadies I knew.

I left that hotel,
Paid borrowed Francs,
And returned to the venue,
To join the tour’s ranks.


Thirty years gone,
My youthful long shame
When travelled alone,
A guilt-hitch game.

I had robbed my account,
Spent hole-supplied notes.
Ferried-thrown to Spain,
Puked dry on that boat.

From Santander, rain,
Me a hitch-soak rat,
My hand in the air,
Lifted off the kerb’s trap.

The romantic notion,
Spanish storm’s rheum,
A clearing focus,
In Montpelier, blown .

A failed sojourn,
Stupid-Kerouac spun,
A toured lift north,
Teenage kick done.


Leave a Reply Cancel reply