Dishwater coffee – my parents said – was caused by The Visitors.
They came, bought up all the good stuff
‘Til Tesco’s café was almost drunk dry,
leaving us locals with the watery dregs.
The Visitors were a menace.
They didn’t know how to reverse.
They sat, stupidly blinking their lights.
Unwilling, or incapable
Of driving backwards
half a mile
down a country lane.
The Visitors stay out too long
In what they call the “English” sun
And pop up their windbreaks in the most obvious spot.
They don’t know about the second beach, or the third;
hidden, you must wade to it, past the rocks and tide.
They stretch out their bodies on the first strip of sand
that presents itself to their blacked-out glasses.
The Visitors see paintings and picture-postcards, but never poverty.
“London’s playground,” said The Times.
‘What?’ we said. It was winter. The sky was white. The streets were empty.
The early daffs were living in the ground
And pennywort grew between the stones of the hedge
There for the taking, smelling of home.
Find out more about Suky Goodfellow at www.sukygoodfellow.com or pop along to Mightier: A Political Poetry Night on April 15th and say hello in person.