A poem by Jonathan Davidson


To die in a ditch or on a bombed-out
Bus on the way to a market
You’ll never reach.
To have it all ended that easily,
Cameras coming afterwards,
Expressions of non-joy.
You will never inhabit old age, friend.
You will never sit in a quiet square
Towards evening, hearing
Nothing but the world turning on its
Creaking axis like an old bicycle
Creaking down an old lane.
Jonathan Davidson’s second collection, Early Train, was published by Smith/Doorstop in 2011. He lives in the English Midlands.