Fridayville Poem by Matthew Coombe

No matter where you are
such a place always seems too far away.
A small black dot on the far edge of the map

cut off by thick forests and rivers black.
But in this place the coffee is always fresh
the air coloured with the salty scent of bacon.

The children sit in their brightly coloured
classrooms listening to stories.
And in the afternoons they paint pictures of dragons

insects and far away lands.
The old ones walk in leafy parks.
They eat their neatly cut sandwiches

in the shade of the bandstand.
Then at dusk some gather around
tables of green felt to play some bridge and drink tea.

And by late evening the children curl into their beds
the parks are empty
and the cards neatly stacked in the bottom of the drawer.