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The long car journeys to the sea
must have their breaks, not always
in towns where there's no room
to park but at the pavement's edge,
in villages, or by the woods, or in lay-bys
vibrating to the passage of fast cars.
The seat's pushed forward, the boot's lifted,
the greaseproof paper
rustles encouragingly. The children
climb to the ground and posture about,
talk, clamber on gates, eat noisily.
They're herded back, the journey
continues.
What do you think
they'll remember most of that holiday?
the beach? the stately home?
the hot kerb of th epromenade?
No. It will often be those nameless places
where they stopped, perhaps for no more
than minutes. The rank grass
and the dingy robin by the overflowing
bin for waste, the gravel ridged by
numerous wheels and the briared wood
that no one else had bothered to explore, the long inviting field
down which there wasn't time
to go - these will stick in their memories
when beauty spots evorate.
Was it worth the expense?
but
these are the rewards of travelling.
There must be an end in sight
for the transient stopping places
to be necesssary, to be memorable.
by
Molly Holden
