A WEEKEND IN MARCH
I. The Scene
A beam of light breaks through the clouds.
Soon, newlyweds will be framed
next to the fountains, married ears content
with the songs of darting birds in Spring.
Is love a mere affair of weather?
I smoke a cigarette. The light’s gone by the time
I’m finished. And now it starts to rain;
leaves rattle as the wind squalls and I struggle
past the museum, suitcase in hand.
II. Joy
Opposite me in the Humanities café
you talk about the grades you got and your
critical theories. I feel emasculated.
I gaze at your leather boots, the gleaming buckles,
watch every word I say, quote Oscar Wilde
when you move on to the subject of marriage.
As you leave, I put my hand in my pocket,
check my manhood is still there, and sigh.
III. Travelling Hopefully
Men marry because they are tired.
My mates must be tired of me.
I get on the coach. I’m free
to make new friends here.
The windows are painted black.
IV. Enemy Arms
On deck, I trace the moon’s sad steps.
We’ll reach Calais shortly. There are lots
of pretty girls on this trip. I’ll be
in a room with seven of them,
like a broken Coriolanus,
finding solace in enemy arms.
V. Hannah
The rain is so heavy it hurts now.
You smile under your green hood. I flirt,
encouraged by bottles of Desperados,
a White Russian, straight shots of vodka.
On the train back, we hold hands,
but once we’re in our room again
you’re colder than the rain. I sit at the hostel bar,
like Jack Nicholson in ‘The Shining’. Alone.
‘Nobody understands me, Sam!
Je ne parle pas francais, pardon.’
VI. Laila
Laila has me on my knees when she twirls
her velvety hair, lets her looks linger.
This is the last night in Paris and I’m with
the Bristol University girls, drinking at the hostel bar.
Drinking my hangover away. Laila likes
my Welsh accent, even though I say ‘pardon’
the French way now. We kiss at the end of the night.
This single life n’est pas si mal.
VII. The Score
On the way back to Wales, back to the essays,
back to the friends who bore me with talk
of love and kids and white weddings.
But I’ve made new friends. Enjoyed myself
with these strangers, feel sorry leaving them.
Leaving her, knowing we’ll never speak again.
I look out of the coach window at Welsh words,
shining like diamond glints on snow,
and replay the weekend in my head.
The coach hums a melody as it races down
the long stretch of calm, sunlit road. It looks
as if Spring has finally arrived.
