We’re on the road to Cromer,

something inside has died,

or was that wishful thinking,

a brass knuckle fight

with myself that leaves me

covered in bruises of scorn.

I knew a man once, who declared

with less than a twinkle in his eyes,

that he had fallen asleep

on a wrought iron park bench,

previously occupied by Norfolk pigeons

and the random blown evening newspaper,

one sunny day in that far off town.

He didn’t wake for a couple of days,

but finally snoring loud enough

to wake the dead,

the doctors all agreed that

they would have to tell him of his plight,

that he had fallen into Cromer…

Ian D. Hall 2018