The Journeyman

You know where to stand, at 06:45,
on that concrete and slab pier,
above the meadow where I walk
into that sunrise,

which you will travel towards,
irritated by its flicker at speed
and jealous of my steps
through dew grass,

and further irritated by these,
my slow observations
of high-wire catching,
weighted, cobwebs,

as you journey into the Bridge,
on a service which sucks
out your life,
out of which
no holiday survives.

Mike Bell Poetry

Mike Bell aims to write 10,000 poems, stick them up here one at a time, and then take a nap. By then he should be about 85 years old and have out-gunned PD, dementia, and the end of days. Possibly. Before the floods and fires. Mike Bell is found working for money as a freelance set designer.

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