By Adam Gibson ©
we drove to Montreal
in the spring of 1995
and on that drive
frost-mist held the trees still
while the sky could not be faulted
for its unbroken purity of low grey;
we were so young and it
seems so long ago
but it feels like last week too
and we didn't feel young at the time.
and the whole trip was organised,
petrol stops and meals pre-planned,
and the three of us drove,
me in the backseat,
up through Canada
while winter wasn't so much breaking
as seeping away into muddy brown
and lost watches and coins and cars and money
were appearing from the melting snow
all soggy and white and not-quite-right.
big North American cars allow big North American people
the big North American luxuries of spreading wide,
splaying their rumps and shanks across a vast expanse.
an alternative benefit is the person in the back passenger seat
can grasp the hand of the person in the front passenger seat
without the driver having a clue.
and so on we drove like that,
a betrayal so sweet you
could hardly criticise it,