Dave Poem by David Lambourne

I once met one of Dad's friends
from the before-times he used to inhabit
until we came along - the time of Mum.
He took me there by train and taxi. The view

from the taxi window floated past: field after field
of bolting lettuces planted in long
weed-choked lines, a sad regiment
of ragged sea-green petticoats, thrusting

at a white sky. Lumps of scrub
huddled on the horizon; fat threads of rain
drove across everything. We arrived at a farmhouse
with a wounded roof. A mess of plaster

lay under the collapsed ceiling, through which
I could see smashed laths, darkness
and a bright slash of light. Needing to pee,
I was directed to a stinking lean-to

hosting a blackened Elsan - a kind of steel bucket
without seat or flush. I remember afterwards
trampling a path through a wild orchard
where fallen apples hid in the long grass,
gorgeous with mould like jewelled balls.