Waiting for Mary
truck stop glowing under fluorescence, bloodshot eyes everywhere. long-haul drivers slumped in the corners. builders with cement dust still in their hair and travelling salesmen chasing the next few quid. cheap knives scraping grease off the plates. old coffee stains dried deep into the formica. above the jukebox, a chalkboard menu with blue and white
The Welsh Dragon
the winter sun blasts through tinted Welsh windows, and my skin feels it all at once, sudden and warm after the cold grey miles. through the glass, the valleys roll on soft and endless, the long grass bending and lifting in the winter wind like it’s breathing slow and easy with the land. I drift