Beer Picnic – 1
I sit by Capstone’s man-made lake on a grey day
and plan the perfect picnic.
Sometime next week,
when the gloom of rain has changed to winter sun,
I’ll leave my desk
and take time wrapping many-layered sandwiches
in greaseproof paper squares.
I’ll pick a hoppy beer from the corner shop
and pack a rucksack
with a hot water-bottle
and a flask to fill it up.
A sole swan will turn its long neck
to look at me.
My eldest daughter says it sounds lonesome.
I’m surprised by this until I think of my own mum,
sat beside the Ancholme
with a tuna mayonnaise baguette ,
a can of Diet Coke
and ready salted crisps.
My youngest suggests I take a decoy pram
because a solitary picnic,
if paired with a sleeping baby,
will not trigger a stranger’s pity.
My mum.
The tuna mayonnaise.
The ready salted crisps.
Beer Picnic - 2
On Chatham High Street
a fella with gnarly skin and a loose smile
sets up his beer picnic
of Special Brew - cans carefully
perched in a babyless buggy:
his reliable alibi
to drinking alone.
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