'Can do' country by Fiona Sinclair

Fiona Sinclair is the editor of the on line poetry magazine Message in a Bottle. Her seventh collection Slow Burner will be published by smokestack in August 2018.

'Can do' country

I declare I could lottery win live here. Not for turquoise sea,

tiny mosques like parish churches or mountains that scenery bomb.

In truth, the town is not post card pretty except at night with

its constellation quality street wrapper lights.

No, it's because I recognize as kindred: dad , mum, two kids

who pile on moped like motor cycle display team for trip to sea front .

Farmers who trundle their tractors into town, parking up outside cafe

or big shop with the wife perched on wheel arch baring plastic bags.

Such echos of my own father's devil may care , draw from me

giggles to guffaws not at but in tribute to their 'can 'do attitude.

But you point out that necessity is a fecund mother here.

Wages are equivalent our 10 year old niece's pocket money ,

so no Primark punt , no pop it on plastic ,

when a car engine flat lines , owner and mates peer under bonnet,

take problem to local cafe , over strong coffee constituency

crude oil, solve on back of fag packet.

Washing machine is kept going long after the company becomes extinct

by someone's cousin who can make the part to make the part ...

These village genius, content to donate their talents in exchange

for homegrown peaches, tomatoes, are our loss.

A counterfeit Narnia world to lull myself to sleep,

sometimes so involving hours before dropped off.

Only kid running stick along holiday railings

I diversified into to TV programme spin offs.

Parallel world becoming a bolt hole when father cancer consumed .

Next twenty years after shock life with mother meant I kept rhythm

with her boozy days by hokey- cokeying in and out of my own La La land.

So, trudging off to smirking pawn brokers, trudging back from ‘offy’,

I would fantasy accept Oscar squired by Redford.

When my life rebooted found could only make so much ‘own luck’.

Dipping toe in teaching found it pulled me under

so dull meetings, commuting, before Mogadon kicked in

grown up fantasies: partner, kids, travel…

Then you arrived like a large compo pay out,

unclamped my life, took my crumpled wish list in hand Stick with me kid.

Our carbon footprints trotting across the globe

in synched lives where things just happen to us,

perhaps because both gift for close observation life’s stitching.

Now because no longer need to summon up Westworld adventures

when my days are; couples stuff, Seville , step-kids ,

find instead I need all my wits to scan this new life’s small print,

for Ts and Cs that might reverse the happiness dividends.

And few years in finding myself occasionally at reality’s sharp end,

buff envelopes, health scares, families or

daily dull edge cooking, house work, washing ,

instinct to cross the threshold again, but discover

reality like a video virus, has corrupted my fantasy world.