Like Saul on the road to Damascus
when Jehovah stopped for a word and held forth
Mary Wakefield met Lord God Almighty
on the A1. In March. Heading north.
In a car with something quite deadly
(who was apparently feeling unwell)
his road paved with the worst of intentions
off to Durham, or – hopefully – hell,
coughing and sweating and whining
like some self-centred, sociopath scrote
Dominic feared for his life, scribbled Mary
in the newspaper column she wrote.
Mrs Cummings said he fell so ill
she dropped and knelt in prayer,
while conveniently forgetting to let us all know
when and how and where….
Did they pull into the hard shoulder
so she could have a word with God?
Was it in a petrol station forecourt?
Did the attendant think it odd
to see her babbling by unleaded
while texting The Spectator
to say she’d got a world exclusive
and she’d have it with them later?
Was it at Scotch Corner services?
Perhaps in Costa? Or the loos?
260 miles of possibilities,
so which one did they choose?
Did she genuflect through Grantham
strapped to the roof rack or packed in the boot?
while Classic Dom listened to Classic FM
shedding virus the length of the route.
Did she mutter her prayers on the back seat
as she haggled her word count and fee?
As they entered the Land of Prince Bishops
was Mary still down on her knees?
Or is it all a charade, a wee fiction,
a fairy tale packaged for fools
by two people out dancing to ABBA
who know The Winner Takes It All and don’t follow the rules
God’s just another hired help, like a cleaner,
there to pick up the mess, and be gone
like those lickspittle Cabinet ministers
insisting today that Dom’s done nothing wrong.