So this is where they live, the ones who won
the victors; proud and just
and justly proud of all they own
and now
just coasting down the hill
the wind behind and cadence light
and ease is theirs by right

this world is old stone and thatch; whitewash; exposed brick; big dogs.
this world is nice; cath kidston quaint and barbour –
new cars, old homes,
and a pub that sells wasabi peas

this world is what we want, I’m told, it’s where we go
when funds allow
we fight for this and build our lives and strain
the schools are good (of course)
the people nice
and screw the ones who can’t afford
that’s half the point
I’m told

But jealousy is never nice and if I criticise,
then well, I guess I didn’t win;
and so I must have lost
to the victors go the spoils
and so they did;
their parents bought and sold for millions
more
a brilliant move (well done to them)
they chose their parents well

Ha.
I laugh at my own unspoken joke, the silent cynic again.
But that’s way too easy. There’s more than that at work today.
<Sigh>
I sit and finish my drink.
And then it shifts
the light still bright but now
I sense the fear
and then I see it; written large
‘You Will Not Find It Here’

You will not find it here, it says, written on the wall
fine black letters, stark and bright against the crafted stone
No-one sees it – yet; just me, and I stay still

and then I glance around and written large on window-sill
in letters fine yet clear
– ‘It Isn’t Here’
it says

It isn’t here? I turn again and sculpted fine in silver plastic
the font familiar, right next to the brand; the make, the manufacturer
or whatever it is those companies tell us they are
you know, the ones who make the cars
anyway
right next to the name, it now says something else
the car still shines but all I see is this
‘It’s. Not. Here.’

On every car, on every house, on the river,
written in flaming specks of dancing light,
on the trees, the clothes, the shoes,
even on the glorious, distant hills
on every vain attempt to buy
security
and hope
I sense it now

A cry; a plea, a voice I hear
and words yet sharper still
‘You Will Not Find It Here’
it says
‘You Will Not Find It Here’
and still I sense their fear
it only grows

and so we drive away
and it recedes, as we head down the A14
and talk; relaxed and calm
and glad

and home again I find my pen
and turn my eyes
on high
I smile and then
look down again

I find a place
and write

Andy Fox, 2015