Mill Road, Cambridge, Cambridgeshire.

Mill Road shops don’t sell good wine 
nor do they tell me where I can find some, 
in fact they take their time- 
tease, control and have their fun 
with the lost customers of the-not-so-Highway-61.


Last time on the wine, it made your veins morbid
miles of madness, that took
you out into the woodland; to the trees of darkness
and no one, no one could stop you.
Red or white the colour doesn’t matter,
because the girl you held when you were 17
turned into the devil when you reached 18 and
now you’re lost in myriad Benzedrine world:
map burnt, compass broke, sat cross-legged under the oak.
No knot can help you now neither can the knees you rely on,
because ripped jeans caused minor ligament failure.

Running is not an option.
So wait until dew drop rises from the dirt
as then knees will bend, contort, run away and work.


It’s a good job Mill Road doesn’t sell good wine,
as students would end up in fields far from
here,
never to return home.