by Anna M. Evans

You’re acne-ridden by quaint, gothic churches
though half are vandalized, with roofs that leak;
you teem with groves of bluebells, oaks and birches,
where condoms lie with beer cans cheek to cheek.
Your towns all have at least one cobbled street
for lager louts to haunt on scuffling feet.
You’ve castles guarding concrete moats and shops
which market kitsch embossed with Union Jacks
for Yanks. Your pubs boast polished counter-tops,
and sell warm beer with over-priced bar snacks.
You’ve Queens and Princes, whose unlikely lives
push gossip mags at over-made up wives.
You’ve football hooligans, the BBC;
you’ve betting shops where everybody smokes;
you’ve greyhound racing, mushy peas, strong tea;
your traffic jams are legend, like your jokes.
Your climate’s awful—every day’s the same—
yet only you know how to say my name.

I feel like we broke up by accident—
our separation lengthened,
                                                     till one day
it seemed polite to make it permanent,
and so I signed my rights to you away.
Now, as with marriage after a divorce,
I’m barred from all expressions of remorse.

Find out more about Anna Evans and her work at www.annamevans.com.
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