Sense Of Direction

Sense Of Direction

I’m rubbish at reading maps.
It’s a cliché I know.
So is the fact
of my love of shoes
and all things fluffily pink
and chilled chardonnay.
Oh, call me
Bridget.
(Jones – I can’t
live up to Bardot.)

But it’s true,
I’m no good with a map.
I’m crap with a compass
and slack with a sat-nav.
I am not one who knows
which way is up,
let alone north.

But when it’s all going south
and your mouth is skewed down,
and it’s no swings, all roundabouts,

and you’re thinking
“are we there yet?”
or “just get me out!”
‘cause your feet are
rubbed raw from trudging,
your car’s failed it’s MOT,
the bus never turned up
and there were inevitably
leaves on the line…

I’m here,
going the same way as you,
with a flask of strong tea
and wearing pink boots.
And other things of course,
‘cause I don’t want to catch a chill.

The road is long,
but we can always
jump in the hedge instead.

Being OK

Being ok

I cannot fly.
I cannot dance the tango.
I cannot rewire a plug.
I cannot fry an egg
without it omelette-ing itself.
But that’s ok.

I cannot juggle.
I cannot always sleep.
I cannot resist being sarky.
I cannot guarantee you
will always feel good.
But you will be ok.

I cannot sing.
I cannot always do sums.
I cannot forget the wrong man.
I cannot eat a doughnut
without licking my lips.
But that’s always ok.

I cannot lie.
I cannot walk in heels.
I cannot sheer a sheep.
I cannot fold a napkin
to look like a swan.
But we are ok.