Hotel Britannia

posted in: Poems | 0

As breakfast is braved on blemished plates,
Dickens looks down from a dusty frame.
Management feel the need to repeat
They require ID if clients pay cash.
The locked revolving doors are blocked
With leaves and moss, the gloss long gone
Since the Great Man’s statue approved the passage
From station to sign-in to staircase to suite.

Now things wither and we are witnesses.

We always say our stay’s been ‘fine’
Our smile a lie the size of the difference
Between tradition and fixing the things
That leak. We leave fatigued, imagining
A time before taxis tangled with tracksuited
Smokers searching for somewhere to stub out
The weekend, speaking the language of letdown, longing
For days when banisters were stroked by hands of grandeur.

Now things wither and we are witnesses.

A wedding’s whirlwind whips the leaves
With wishful thinking fuelled by drink,
While grandma’s wobbly wandering watershed
Moment arrives and she’s bundled back to bed three times
By beloved grand-daughters’ thankful hands.
Guiding her to their room the final time
They recognise the signs of dying pasts,
That this kiss goodnight is love’s goodbye.

Now things wither and we are witnesses.



(from the forthcoming Town)

Follow Jimmy Andrex:

Poet, performer, propelling pencils.

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