All those years of it, the same

vague journey every place we went,

driving to work each holiday

in a choky, smoke-filled den

at the back of my father's Transit.

Life was the business of earning

your keep; no peace for a drone

in a house where you paid your way.

 

And each time my school books

were laid aside and the pencil-work

had ceased, it was back to early

starts, the strange renewal

of an intimate routine

as he poured impossible mugs

of thick stewed tea, turned out

a slithery half-cooked fry.

 

We'd wait together at the front

of the house for his driver

to bring the van, its diesel

engine roaring assertively

down the street. Inside,

they were studying form

in the Mirror and Sporting Life,

exchanging gargled judgments.

 

The steel doors slammed forlornly.

We were on the road once more.

If I closed my eyes I imagined

we’d make it to the next frontier,

when all we did was land

on a creeping new estate

where, opening up those doors again,

my gaffer showed me the light.