Besançon : October 1991
Motorways in France
stripped to their flesh of cars, of trucks
with names of families
who run small to medium fruit and veg companies
near the Swiss border.
France is mine,
though – I’m almost sleeping,
I know – France is mine.
It’s 2.28am, possibly later.
Several sections of Shine On You Crazy Diamond
hang on leaves of trees
that droop from by-passed villages, industrial estates
trucks will leave for Italy and Spain moments from now.
Memorials to people who just seemed destined to die
in the most sad and bitter ways –
war, smashed-up tour buses, young movie-stars –
are secondary to Richard Wright’s sonic tundra.
It seems suitably European,
clocks wearing blindfolds
at the most lavish and appalling parties in Versailles
John Doyle is somewhere in his 40s, whereabouts exactly, he lost track of a few days before his 41st birthday. From County Kildare in Ireland, he’s had four collections of poetry published to date, with a fifth crash-landing from Neptune in early 2020. He enjoys the writing talents of Audre Lorde, Charles Bukowski, Susan Wicks, and John Haines, the music of Paul Weller, John Coltrane, and Ben Pirani, and the sporting talents of Katie Taylor and Leo Messi. He’ll think of something else as soon as he finishes this bowl of oxtail soup…