Detour
We missed the turn for Woodham Walter -
you laughed, said bugger it,
while Meat Loaf promised anything for love,
but not that, and we howled it too loud
to call Vic but weren’t making sense.
That summer was all good times -
boots off, feet in the grass, cider laughs,
hedgerows telling us we’re far from the smoke.
When you moved away, the road trips ended,
the signal’s thinner online, thread stretched but not snapped.
I keep that ride like a locket -
destination not as important as the journey.
you, me, Meat Loaf all agreeing that
There ain’t no Coupe de Ville
hiding at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box.
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