I kept the car running at the bus stop,
Parked in the quarantined yellow paint square,
So you could jump out and take a clean shot
Of the row of terraced Georgian houses.
Your face looked so intent as you stood there,
Slightly shifting your feet for better light.
That look of sadness that your face espoused
As you took in the crumbling houses plight.
Their windows shuttered up with metal grills,
Balding roofs with missing patches of slate.
These once grand homes, perched on Somerset hills
Made this the richest place in all the land,
Now they are relics of our once great state,
Mausoleums returning back to sand.
Colin Bancroft is currently in exile in the North Pennines working on his PhD around the Ecopoetics of Robert Frost. His pamphlet ‘Impermanence’ was published by Maytree Press in 2020. He also runs the poetry website http://www.